Venery
by FakeitTillYouTakeIt
Summary: He's chased her all over the world for the past five years, forgetting her less and less each time. She's been beaten down, dragged back home, and still she runs, escaping and then waiting to be caught. After the dismantling of HYDRA she finds him just in time before he becomes the one being hunted. (Winter Soldier and Civil War timelines). Bucky/OC
1. Genoa, WV

The first time he'd retrieved her was in 2011, just inside of West Virginia at the southwest corner; coordinates 37.432973, -81.987671, a little fishing town curled in a bed of red and yellow trees. She'd run away from home for the first time-left in the middle of the night with a bus ticket and seven hundred dollars cash. She could have taken more, could have traveled farther, but she didn't know he existed, she had no idea how easily he would find her. He blew out the wheels on the van she was riding in, put bullets in the kids she'd been traveling with. When she was running away from the car he could hear jitterbug playing on the dying radio.

That was the first time he'd ever seen her in real life; smiling, laughing, bobbing up and down as she climbed into that van, fall and sunlight swimming around her. Just a kid. With all the wipes he couldn't remember if he'd actually looked at the pictures in Pierce's house. He couldn't recall if he'd stood in a main room, scanned a wall littered with photographs of a child; some towheaded and laughing in sports gear, some starched and stoic in a school uniform. Ice skating, ballet, smile. Thanksgiving, family portrait, scowl.

The first time she saw him her fear seemed to melt almost instantly, the dark of her eyes dilating and her fingers squeezing into a fist. He'd just lit the van aflame, stalking her down the abandoned highway as she limped and called for help. When he caught up to her she stopped yelling, turning to him with a face not unlike her father's; stanch, a guise of calm over fiery rage.

Back then she fought like a cat, screeching and scratching, fingers and teeth and heels frantic. He'd switched cars three times on the way back, and each time he opened the truck she'd burst out, biting and hollering with her fists white. He could feel the plush of her cheeks give under his knuckles as he beat her into compliance, feel the flush of her skin as his metal fingers gripped around her wrist, splintering the bone. He could almost hear the tearing sound as his knuckle split her lip. She was only eighteen.

Still she kept her eyes on him, refusing to cower, insisting that she would never go back. He had to knock her out, twice. She needed to be put in plaster casts when he got her home, her skin purpled and yellowed instead of flush pink. He delivered her back to her father in zip ties, crusty with blood and wearing a shit-eating grin. Pierce had half-heartedly introduced them, calling him "the Asset." The secret weapon of his parental control—the prized tool. He spoke her name like it was a bitter taste in his mouth; _Ruby_.

Pierce told his daughter he should thank the Asset, but his attempt at domination aborted when she promptly smiled, saccharine, and slipped up to him, the plastic ties making bulbous segments on her arms as she held her hands near his face. He was unmoving, and when given permission he looked at her, down at the red streaks the links in his prosthetic had made on her face. She'd probably had perfect skin before his hands touched her.

Blood formed crunchy mounds in her pale hair, and he could feel the plumose ends brush against the inside of his elbow when she leaned close. He noticed her eyes were hazel right before she spit in his face. "Till next time, Ass-hat." An agent restrained her, yanking her discolored body away and into the house to be mended and punished. He didn't move an inch, not until he was allowed.

Right before they cleared his head again Pierce looked down at him, the irises of his eyes starkly different from the child. "That may not be the last time you have to track her down, soldier." He said it irritatingly, like mentioning a chore. His teeth gritted inside his cheeks, the image of her being marred again by his hands flooding him with revulsion before it all went blank.


	2. Belén, Paraguay

The second time he retrieved her was in the western side of Paraguay, near the Tropic of Capricorn; coordinates -24.048882, -57.347802. She'd coerced a celebrity with a jet and unrestricted airway access to fly her overnight to South America, eighty grand in cash that she'd saved up in small pieces so her father wouldn't notice. That was the story she relayed to him on the flight back, squirming under the ties and restraints that held her against the seat, dirt on her face and blood in her mouth.

She was in a village, walking through a street market when he saw her. The bright, florid colors of the city contrasted with him, sweat beading down his arm and chest under the black cotton and leather. She was wearing a bright headscarf, grinning, laughing with a vendor and holding oranges in her hands, long fingers rubbing the pores and waxy surfaces.

Then she saw him, and that picture-frame smile fell like the fruit in her hand. It bounced off of the dirt when she dropped it, her eyes wide with that temporary panic, quickly replaced with urgency. She cordially picked the orange up and gave the merchant a large bill before sprinting away from the crowd.

She was faster this time, nimbler, but he didn't actually remember it. She jumped over carts, under awnings and through tin edifices before bursting into the cusp of the jungle, the humid sheet of green engulfing her. His mask was thick with condensation, pants of air soaking his lips and chin.

He could see the golden wave of hair flicking back and forth as she ran ahead of him, yelling for help again. Soon her screams began to blend with the sounds around them, and if he raised his head he could see the massive troop of howler monkeys swinging through the trees above them, screeching, drowning her out.

She'd come to a dead end, staring over the edge, and he could hear the roar of gushing water. He saw her take a frantic step back and begin to leap forward before she was caught, yanked back down to the forest bed, and then she was fighting him again, fists a little firmer, kicks a little harder, her eyes just as fiery.

"Get off of me! Let me go _now!_ " She roared, scratching his face and chest before his prosthetic gripped her neck and slammed her down, shoving her into the damp mud. He could drag her to HYDRA's plane, could break any bone in her body. ' _No_ ,' it would be better to get her home in one piece.

Her fingernails slipped against the metal as she wrestled him. He could hear the sound of her voice flitter away, feel the air leave her lungs and fight to re-enter, the pound of her heartbeat beginning to slow. All the sounds she emitted filled his ears, and he stared down at her defiant eyes, never leaving his. Hazel. His own flesh almost softened against her.

He was distracted, that's why he didn't notice the thumping sound in the earth beneath him, the sound of leaves flying, the flash of speckled yellow in his peripheral vision before it was too late. A massive jaguar knocked him off of her, tackling him to the edge of the waterfall, its white teeth sinking into his arm, giant paws pounding against his face, the claws extended and sinking deep.

He tried to hold it away, to keep its jaws from his neck, and he punched it and kept punching, the mechanical sound of metal mixing with the crunch of bone and muscle. It mauled him over and over, and he could hear a high sound under the growls and snarls of the cat.

She was screaming, her calls for help having returned full force. "Ayuda! Ayúdanos!" He laid still for a second when the animal pulled back, felt the moist air on his open wounds, muscles and bones exposed. He was cold.

The element that brought him back to the present was the sound of her voice, draped in actual fear for the first time, backed up against a gumtree as the jaguar slunk closer to her, shoulders oscillating, tail swinging back and forth. The words of his master rung heavy in his mind, muddled with almost-memories and foggy shapes: _"Bring her home, alive. Do whatever it takes, keep her secure at all costs, soldier."_ She was his mission. She is the mission.

Blind strength rang through his wires again, and he shot the prosthetic out, gripping the animal's hind leg before it could lunge forward at her. He yanked back with a powerful thrust and rolled the animal over, curling the metal around its body and swinging it over the ledge into the pounding water below.

She couldn't see him anymore; she thought he'd fallen into the pit with the animal, scrambling to the ledge. The metal fingers were gripped on a loose root, tightly wound, and when he looked up at her she was reaching down to him, those long fingers wrapping around the wrist, frantic.

"Hold on! Give me your hand!" She rushed, reaching for him. He swung the battered limb up to grab the root and instantly her hand was pulling him, clawing onto him for support instead of mêlée. He lifted to the ledge and she scooted back as he climbed over, back to the patch of muddled land.

He panted, crouching down, and when she reached to him he knocked her back, trying to stand and then stumbling. "Don't! Don't stand up." Her voice was inelegantly gentle, hoarse from his previous grip. She reached to him again and called for help, her voice trailing off as she assessed him. "Oh my God, oh my God, what have I done, what have I—"

She paused in horror when the skin began to re-attach, when the wounds began to close themselves. Her ragged breath caught stickily in her throat, backing away from his body. In moments he stood again, clenching a fist, flexing a calf, before leaning down and grasping her bicep, yanking her to her feet and starting to walk in the direction of the plane.

"Who, who are you? H-how did you just do that? You're supposed to be bleeding out, how can you be walking? How can you be alive?!" She jerked back, stepping away from him. He reached for her again and she pulled away, throwing her fists, kicking him in the gut and the hip and thigh before he knocked her across the jawline, sweaty skin catching under his knuckles. She fell to the ground, spitting blood onto the rich greenery before glaring up at him, a hateful, cherry-red grin on her ruddy cheeks.

"I've gotta say, none of my chaperones are as handsy as you." She spit again, wiping her mouth before standing and facing him. "I'm not going back." She said, a motif she'd used the last time. Was there a last time?

He watched her stare him down, the gold of her eyes flickering in the pulsing sunlight. She attempted to throw a punch, and when he blocked her and spun her backwards she thrust her elbows into his ribs as he choked her out. "No! NO!" She beat against him, and just before she went limp he felt a word form in his mouth, almost spoken. _'Stop.'_ She was only nineteen.

He'd carried her over his shoulder like a sack of flour, hiking to the plane. Guards strapped her to her seat and ordered him to sit in the backside of the plane until they landed. She came to just after they'd taken off, the sound of Velcro pulling and tightening bringing his attention to her. When she realized where she was she stared out of the window and sighed, the bruise on her jaw moving with her mouth.

"I really thought I did it right this time, Ass-hat." She didn't look up at him, her eyes on the moving knots of clouds. She told him her plans, how she'd stashed the money, convinced a goateed millionaire to fly her to Dourados and take a bus to Horqueta, how it she made sure there was no paper trail. "Guess I'll have to be more creative." He never spoke, but her voice filled the silence. He couldn't remember if he was ever told her name.

"You know I'm just going to do it again, right?" A silence extended and she turned to him. Her face seemed different, strange. Her eyebrows were no longer knitted together, lips relaxed, teeth un-gnashing. No, her eyes. The ire inside of her eyes was subdued, softened, and when she spoke aloud he almost didn't hear her.

"Thank you." He didn't know what those words meant, he hadn't heard them in a lifetime, in two.

"Can't say a guy's fought off a jaguar for me before. Not even the bitchboy who let me use his plane." She looked down and snickered, her hands fiddling in the restraints. When she looked back to him he noticed how the humidity had thickened her hair, dirty and stuffed with leaves, how her skin was swollen and dewy, how she looked at him with a dull comfort now instead of disgust.

She made a move to cross her legs, the flesh of her ankle facing him; a tiny ink flower lay just above the anklebone; rose. He stared at it, trying to place its meaning and realizing there was none. Just a rebellious act, something permanent to stand her ground, like the constellation of scars that would not doubt litter her body if she continued to do this.

She must have picked up on his assessment of her, winking callously at his focused expression. "You do look pretty sharp without your swim goggles, though." She leaned back and closed her eyes, and he realized she'd acted different for a reason, that she'd looked at him contrarily on purpose. He'd lost the eyemask in the fight and she'd seen him, _him_ , whoever he was.

When they exited the plan she fought again and had to be dragged to the SUV by her elbow and shoulder, bruising and scraping against the concrete. She was brought back to Pierce covered in red scratches, and when he glared her down she grinned wildly.

"You'll never guess what happened, daddy!" She squealed in a syrupy sweet tone, drily skipping into the manor before stopping and turning back. He hadn't been permitted to look at her, but he saw her glance at him before being pulled away by caregivers and maids. Just a glance, so quick no one noticed. Why had she tried to help him off of that ledge?

Before they wiped him that night Pierce gave him a nod, his fingers intertwining with each other. They were stubby, wrinkled. "Good work, soldier." He began to pace as doctors hooked him up to the machine. "Ruby is…strongwilled, and it takes more than a few bruises to break her. I would imagine she'd not done terrorizing me with these antics." He sighed down at his palms, his tone sounding similar to a rant about taxes.

"Maybe she enjoys making me worry. Maybe she just likes the attention. I doubt she has any real reason to do all of this." He waved a hand in the air, and the soldier's eyes followed him as he traced the room. "Oh, you won't remember anything, anyway. Start the procedure." He exited the room just as the mouthguard was shoved between his teeth.

Ruby. Her name is Ruby.


	3. Black Rock Desert, NV

He didn't see her again until she came home one night after being gone for a full four days. No sign of struggle, just a wad of cash missing from the safe and granola bars missing from the pantry. Pierce had paced back and forth in his den for an hour, agents filling the room, flyers full of her phone records and credit card transactions littering a desk. He'd been brought to his home to be briefed and sent out, to recover and retrieve.

He was told the basics, data in his mind seemingly for the first time. Height, weight, hair and eye color. A list of people she'd been seen with last, the clothes she wore, the places she'd most likely went. Do whatever it takes to bring her back alive, make sure there are no witnesses; fight her, beat her, bring her home. His orders were as casual as a grocery list.

"Are you ready to begin your mission, soldier?" He recited, and just at the automatic gears ticked into place inside his mind a door slammed. The room fell into a tense silence, spare the lazy steps clinking against the marble floors and the agents turning with their guns raised.

There she was. The statistics he'd just heard instantly registered as she stepped into view, and he was the first thing she noticed. She froze in her spot, staring him down even when he loomed over her. She wasn't afraid, and it confused him. No fear; she had none in her eyes, only admission.

The agents lowered their guns immediately, and Pierce had shouted something reprimanding that she didn't attend to. She was wearing loose clothes, denim and cotton and beads, small gold tattoos on her ankles and wrists and cheeks. A bright blue sucker jutted out of her mouth, protruding from a flushed cheek.

"Ruby! Where the hell have you been?! I almost had to send a search party to find you!" Pierce boomed, and her expression remained slack, eyes boring into his face. His face. He hadn't geared up for the mission yet, he was bare in front of her.

Her name was Ruby; he held tight onto the letters, repeating it frantically in hopes it would stick. RubyRubyRuby.

"Yeah, I can see that." She said monotonously, slinking her bag on the ground and stepping farther into the room, closer to him. "Do you want to tell me where you felt the need to sneak off to without any word?!" He tested, and she crossed her arms, wiping her boots against the ornamental rug underneath them.

She was covered in orange patches of dirt; dried flowers in her hair, mud splattered on her ankles. "Music festival. I doubt your _asset_ would've been able to find me there, very well blend in." A cocky sneer revealed a row of white teeth, a semi-smile that met him like a headlight.

He hadn't left her gaze, and when Pierce moved to probe her again she interrupted. "I want to speak with _him_." The room quieted and her father looked between the two. He was stick straight, the prosthetic hanging at his side. She glanced at it, ignoring her father's denial. "He doesn't talk, Ruby. He's a soldier, and he won't speak unless given permission." She scrunched her nose and continued to step forward.

"Is that something you teach at SHIELD? Just to can it at all times?" She stopped a step away, and her voice changed. She was talking to _him_ now. "Soldier… what was it, Iraq? Kuwait? Maybe a well-timed Vietnam?" She inched a little, and Pierce warned her. " _Ruby_. He won't break orders." She smiled, eyelids dropping slightly. Boredom. She took a step closer and stopped, finally meeting her father's eyes. "Then let him. I want to ask him a question." They bantered for a long moment, and after a heavy sigh Pierce pinched the bridge of his nose, a leather wingtip slamming against the floor.

"Fine." He straightened and looked at the Asset deadpan. "Soldier, answer her question." He turned to her, lips shut and relaxing, ready to comply. She'd stepped closer and could reach out to him, touch him now. "Alone." She muttered, and more banter ensued until eventually a guard was assigned to stand at the door of the room, a rifle strapped to his chest.

It was nearing four in the morning, and she wrapped braceleted arms around her ribs before stepping to him again, her fake tattoos lit up in blueish lights from outside of the window. She smelled like sugar, the candy dissolved in her mouth.

She was silent for a long time, staring at him, her breath shaky and caged in her lungs. He wasn't allowed to say anything until she did; he couldn't speak until spoken to. When she opened her mouth and inhaled he saw the small white scar that stretched out of her lip, the waxy semicircle on her jaw, the crease in her forehead. Where had she gotten that?

Before she spoke, a quiet hand rose from her side, reaching out in the low light towards him. He could not stop her; his orders had changed. No longer was he to retrieve her, he was to obey her.

Three delicate fingers graced the side of his prosthetic, tracing down over the forearm, links cold under her flesh. He felt his breath fully enter his lungs and stay there a second, not quite sure what she was going to do.

"What's your name?" She asked, almost whispered to him. His jaw widened, lips about to part. No name. He doesn't have a name. He could feel his eyebrows knitting together, and his jaw clenched shut. "I don't know." The sound of his own voice was frightening. It shook him to speak, and when he looked at her again her eyes had glazed over, beads of water at the corner of their lids.

"You-you don't know your name?" The cheekiness was gone, all spiteful rebellion pulled away. She sounded concerned, almost pained. For who, though? Him?

"Do y-… do you remember what they called you, before the Asset thing?" She leaned in, trying to catch his gaze. The floor of his head was watery, papers with bleeding ink swimming around him. Name, name, what was the name?

"Ruby." He said quickly. He remembered something. She shook her head faintly, strands of hair flicking against his arm. "No, that's _my_ name." And her eyes darkened, staring at the floor before glancing up to his prosthetic, to his neck, his chin, his eyes. She was thinking, searching for something.

"What do you remember from the last time we saw each other?" She ordered him to speak, arms crossed, legs straight. He could see her fingers grip her biceps tight, long and rosy. "What?" He'd never seen her before today.

Her lips parted and she took a step back, raising a hand to her sternum, a thumb rubbing the scar on her cheek. "What did they do to you?" She whispered, a shiny bead just slipping down her cheek before she pivoted away, rushing out of the room after harshly ordering the guard to move.

It wasn't until the next mission he was sent on that he remembered again. He'd just shot down a Sikh in a massive mansion, bodyguards and lackeys splayed out over the white tile. Before he left the house he stopped, catching a bright dot in his vision. An orange, a bowl of them piled up on a table. All of a sudden something clicked into place and her name rang translucent as a red jewel, humming in his ears.


	4. Giza, Egypt

I left Burning Man two days early, a giant wad of unspent cash tucked into my boots, tired and impatient. I don't really know why I went. The moment I stepped on the bus I instantly thought about who'd come looking for me, about how long it'd take before I got tracked down. I left a browser open on my laptop, a little hint, something to make the clock run just a little faster. I was bored and I needed to get away, I just…almost _wanted_ to be found.

When I stepped inside the house they were all there, circling around him. He stood in the corner like a child, hidden away. I didn't care what father had to say, what his lecture sounded like, how the fatigue-clad agents had their barrels pointed at my feet. They were planning to send him after me. He was their unofficial pet, the fetching dog. God, how much was this guy getting paid to drag me home when I ran off?

I wanted to talk to him, at least know the name of the guy who gave me a permanent shiner. I'd taken fencing this past year, Bartitsu before that. I was faster now, lighter; I vowed that next time I wasn't going to be brought back. Well, I guess Burning Man doesn't count.

But I wasn't angry when I first saw his face, worn and dusted with hair. I was curious, nosy. He had blue eyes, pretty ones that looked like they could have been kind once, a stance that reeked of military.

Father must have been in love with him; he probably obsessed over his orders, the details he would give. _'Bring her back alive. You can break her legs; no, not the femur, it won't heal in time for exams. Yes, her radius, but not the right one! She needs it to write. Make sure her eyes stay intact, she has a ballet recital next month.'_ That's how I imagined their huddles went, how my retrievals were planned right down to the fractures. The bruises made for good stories, though. Our housekeeper will believe anything I say.

I should think of him as a robot, strictly adhering to his orders, but I can't. His job is to keep me miserable, to paddle me back to Alexander like waterfowl. And to keep his trap shut, apparently. Who was this person, this ghost that could track me like game, who had clearance to kill people, kids?

No, wait, I am angry. I'm furious at them both.

Father wouldn't leave me alone with him, but I stomped up as if we were, ready to strike, to land one good punch. I had nothing to lose. This extension of my patriarch's oppression couldn't fight me on my turf; he was at beck-and-call, tied to SHIELD or the army or the government. 'Go on, try to stop me'. I'll have your pin pulled by 0600.

Those were the words that rang through my head when I jumped into the hangar of an old Beechcraft outside of Rabat in Morocco. I flew to Africa under a fake name and visa, and I paid the pilot a thousand euros to fly me to Egypt, right on the outskirts of Saqqarah. It took a week, maybe two to hitchhike to Giza, and I squatted in an apartment behind a jewelry store. It was nice, and I mean that.

I made friends like one cooks; a basic set of instructions (don't say your real name, where you're from, why you're here; sound as uninteresting as possible) followed by a few genuine ingredients: laughter, tears, stories.

I played chess with the old men in the square and I ate fresh figs for dinner, listened to bands play in carpeted basements. When I'd been gone ("missing") for ten days I started to think about the Asset, about whether he was searching for me. He probably was. At first it made me grin, maniacal laughter in my head. _Oh, you'll never find me!_

But as ten days turned into fifteen I began to wonder, to think less and less of his duties, of his worship of my father and SHIELD. I thought about his face, the twisted distortion when I asked for his name, the alien-like healing of his mortal wounds, the grinding of his jaw when I asked him what he remembered. I've seen the Avengers, I know what a supersoldier looks like. This must have been the darkside of it.

He didn't remember me. At all. My name came out of his mouth like it was empty, like a foreign word. How could he forget something that had happened six months ago, a year ago? His own name? All the anger I had saved for him slipped down my back when I saw him search desperately for an answer, for a memory.

It disgusted me, made my belly slick with oil, my limbs heavy. Whatever training he'd had to do, whatever trauma he'd endured that made him forget who he was, _that_ was what made me afraid. Maybe of SHIELD more than him. This person wasn't human, but then he was very much so. I saw it in his face, his eyes. Gunmetal blue eyes.

After twenty days I began to wear a Shayla over my hair, to look over my shoulder, sneak into my home at night and check the dark corners. It still wasn't enough.

A woman had performed with her husband and nephews in the basement of a laundromat one night, her voice resonating in the hookah smoke, rich like the tea I was poured. I stayed longer than I should have, and the sky was black by the time I began my walk home, icy wind flittering through the fabric of my headdress.

When I turned a corner the square was empty sans a long black van, and I froze. Not a soul in the street, nobody. I saw the car and took a step back, figuring I would cut through the alley and hideout until the morning, float up the Nile, take a bus to Isreal, maybe fly to Athens. Plans A, B, C, D, and F for get the Fuck out of there.

But when I turned he was on the other end of the road, hands on the grips of a motorcycle at the opposite side of the passageway, yellow streetlights reflecting in the glint of his metal shoulder.

Instantly I was off, cutting through a backway between houses and buildings. We were on the outskirts of the city, where the town meets the desert. I was calling out, I couldn't help it, and when I ran up to a group of men parked on the side of the road I yanked the door open, sliding inside, spewing broken Arabic and French.

They were confused, asking me what I was running from, staring out of the windows, and when I heard the rumble of an engine, saw the singular headlight glowing at the end of the street, I screeched. "Yaqud! _Drive!"_

The wheels burned against the gravel and they drove over the city limits, towards the Necropolis. The motorcycle gained speed, catching up with the car, and I was yelling, screaming, telling them to go faster, to duck down, but it was over in an instant. A shot rang out and blood sprayed across the windshield, painting my face and neck. The wheel turned and we skidded to a stop, my head slamming against the window.

I jumped out, bursting into a run, ignoring the sound of gunshots behind me as I wailed, my legs burning, taking me farther and farther into the desert, cold air stealing my headscarf in the wind. I could hear him, long legs catching up to me, pounding into the sand. I thought I was really outrunning him until I felt the whipping sound of something behind me, the sharp pain in my thigh that brought me down, sand spraying all around me, in my eyes and mouth.

Before I would see what I'd been stabbed with he was already over me, yanking it out with force and kicking me over. I hate the sound of my own scream.

A long iron knife hung in his hands, and when he reached down to take a fistful of my hair I kicked his knee, sending him to the ground. I blocked his blows, punching and shoving in just the right spots that could keep him off of me until I got to me feet. Somehow I knocked him forward and got to my feet, sprinting against the fire in my leg for a few more steps.

I couldn't do this for long, I couldn't outrun him like this. I didn't anticipate getting stabbed. I have to surrender, to stall him for a second.

I spun around and stopped, putting my hands in the air before he could tackle me again. "Wait! Stop! Stop. I'm not running!" I spoke hurriedly, panting and stumbling in the sand. The grains beside my injured leg curdled with dark trails of blood.

He had the knife ready to throw at my other leg, but I moved my hands wildly. "I'm not gonna run, okay?" I could see the massive shapes in my peripheral vision, jutting up into the sky, housing the gods. I was going to try to distract him. Humanize him. I could get his knife, get him down long enough to get back to the car, drive to Cairo. I'm not going back, not going back, not going back.

"Look. Look." I stretched a hand out, but his eyes stayed locked on me, fists clenched tight. I had only pissed him off. When he stepped closer I fell to my knees, feigning submission. "LOOK, Soldier!" I pointed to the right, and for a second he was mortal again, glancing to the horizon.

Not even a half a mile away were the pyramids, 450 feet high, blooming in the moonlight. "Do you know what those are? Do you know what you're looking at?!" I panted, and his eyes attached to the monuments, eyebrows knitting together. Yes, keep looking. I could see a gun holstered at his thigh, the seal unsnapped, safety off.

"You know, you know who made those?" I pitched, my knees scraping closer to his leg, bullshitting words as they came out of my mouth. " _Slaves_ ; people who did anything their king told them to." His eyes scanned over the skyline, staring out into the distance. Just a little closer. "They built those, brick by brick," almost there, "just to show how powerful he was, how many people he had control over." I took my chance and pounced, slipping the gun from its case and rolling back, pointing it right at his face.

He looked down at me as I stood, stepping back. _People like you._ I should just shoot him, just kill him, show my father that I'm not a ball to be fetched. They can't have me.

But I can't pull the trigger. The wind picks up, carrying dusty sheets of sand across my skin, and I can see him staring at me, sweaty strands of hair flying around his face, his eyebrows woven. I take another step back and he stays still. The gun's heavy in my hands, slippery in my palms. He looks almost hurt, almost like he recognizes me. Almost.

"What's my name?" I ask, knee wobbling from the pain in my thigh. The hair around my face sticks to the tears in my eyes, clouding my vision. I can't see what he's thinking, if he's thinking at all.

"What's my name, Ass-hat?!" I ask, and as if in answer a bright light shines over us, the roar of a helicopter deafening me. It catches me off guard and he jumps forward, yanking the gun out of my hands and whipping the handle across my chin, knocking me down. His metal arm wraps across my chest and turns me over before he starts to punch me in the mouth and temple, over and over. I'm faced towards the pyramids, and when he lifts me up and starts to carry me towards the aircraft I mumble with my swollen tongue. "Just another brick."

I pass out before we take off, my vision gone, but I hear something, a grunt, a voice above me; "Ruby."


	5. Washington, DC

The next time he saw her he was at HYDRA's headquarters. He wasn't on a mission, then. His cell was dead quiet, hundreds of feet underground and freezing cold. They'd powered him down hours ago after finishing a mission, one he already couldn't remember, and he was strapped to an upright cot, eyes just shut. This was sleep, this was the closest thing to it.

The room was empty, but he'd heard something, something near him. A thumping, a quickening beat. A pulse. He snapped his eyes open and she was there, in his room, an access card dangling from her wrist. She stared down at him with dismay, or maybe shock. This had never been the protocol for a briefing, he had never been visited or interrupted between rests. Was this a dream? Had he ever had one?

She was frozen in front of him, a velvety green dress covering her arms and thighs, white collar and cuffs peeking out underneath. She looked like a child-wasn't that how children dressed? His mind sorely tried to reach out for memories but there was no stock to choose from. It hurt to search the deep, deep cave behind his eyes.

"I didn't know they kept you down here. You're like the office pet." She said humorlessly, shifting her gaze to the concrete walls, the steel door, the tight leather holding him to the bed.

"Do you know what day it is?" She asked, taking a step closer. He felt threatened, not recognizing her face fully, and he shifted a little under the restraints. She stopped and looked down, grinding her jaw. When she looked back up her eyes were shinning.

"It's Christmas." Her voice creaked a little, and she shook her head, glancing at the access key on her arm. "They're having a party upstairs. Everyone's shitfaced. It wasn't hard to lift an ID badge off one of the guards. I didn't think it would get me this far down." She said, glancing at the name on the key. _Rumlow, B._

"Do you remember my name?" She asked suddenly, a hushed tone filling the room, almost deafening. His eyebrows knit together and the search began, quickly coming up empty. He shook his head. She tried to smile, to chuckle, but her lip quivered and she took a step forward. "Do you know who I am?" He realized he must have met her before, but the vacuum of space in his mind was vacant, no names were present on his tongue, not even his own.

He shook his head again and she nodded slowly, biting her lips, and when she edged forward she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, shaking her hair out of her face. Her hair, the way it fluctuated and waved around her, it was familiar. He'd couldn't have seen it before, he couldn't picture it in his mind, but he felt aware of it.

"Well if you can't remember _me,_ then I guess you won't remember if I tell you I'm going to England next." She sat on the very end of his bed, her voice strong now, unwavering and disenchanted. "I figure it's just obvious enough that no one will look for me there, but I'm sure you'll figure it out sooner or later." She turned towards him with a vulpine smile, a mischievous joke.

He wanted her words to stick, to adhere to the walls of his brain. It hurt, physically, like his mind had been fried so many times that it couldn't hold on to anything. When she sighed and leaned her head back against the wall he felt her hip press against his foot, heat pulsing into him.

"We're not that different, Ass-hat." She looked around the room again, staring at the massive door. "Just prisoners in different prisons." She closed her eyes, and he focused on a thin scar that traced just over her clavicle, the small white specks that dotted her face. Had he done that?

She stayed next to him for a moment, and he studied her still, trying and trying to remember, to memorize. She took a heavy inhale and moved, standing back on her feet and coming close to him. She reached for the second strap that held down his arms, and undid the leather fastening, pulling out his arm, his real arm. Her hands were buttery soft, long fingers wrapping around his wrist and pulling his hand away from his side. He hadn't felt that before; he couldn't recall the feeling of human touch, the subtle warmth of skin.

Immediately it was lost as she pulled a lump out of her dress pocket, a white napkin with greasy spots soaked through. She unfolded the corners and pulled out an item before placing it in his hand. Two cookies were in his palm, light beige and shaped like stars, sprinkled with green and red. The crumbs dusted the lines of his hand, and before he could question it she morphed his fingers to curl around them.

"I don't know what you do down here, but I can tell you probably aren't opening presents any time soon." She wiped her hands on the dress and cleared her throat before facing him again. Her eyes, her hands, where had he seen them before?

"Merry Christmas, soldier." She turned and started towards the door, stopping just as she scanned it open. _No, come back._ She turned her head just past her shoulder and smiled back at him. "See you in a month."


	6. Kinsealy, Ireland

When he'd stepped off of HYDRA's plane there was snow littering the airbase, wet and slushy. They were on the Western coast of England, coordinates 52.413662, -4.089341. The salty, humid air mixed with the frozen winter to make icy heaps of snow that buried the town. He was alone, as always, and traced the perimeters of the city over the course of a week. When he finally found her she was in a square, navigating through the street, covered in wool and knit, a navy hat shrouding the top of her head.

The first thing he noticed was her mouth, how it emitted visible air out into the cold when she breathed. She had coffee in her hands, eyes wide and scanning the statues and buildings. She trudged through the snow and sleet, and just before she saw him she wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed, rubbing the sleeves of her jacket. She was cold. He'd forgotten what that felt like.

He was at the edge of the park when she spotted him. She dropped the coffee on the white ground, staining it brown and yellow. Her feet took a step and then stopped, and he could see her face now, her nose and cheeks bright pink from the wind.

She burst into the crowd and began to sprint, and as he chased her he saw she was running towards the coast, to the docks that jutted out into the Channel. He was catching up; this would be a short mission, it was almost inadequate.

He couldn't shoot, couldn't cause a scene, there were too many witnesses. The van that tailed him was unlocked, agents ready to put her in the back and disappear. He reached out, just barely touching her before she ran into traffic.

A bus screeched to a halt and swerved, knocking him down to the gravel, ripping his mask from his face. He jumped up and looked for her, ignoring the burning in his lungs and legs. He saw the flutter of blonde hair whipping behind her as she ran towards the pier. She was on the docks, why was she on the docks? _No_.

He saw the massive ferry ahead of them, the workers closing the gate. He could hear the sound of a propeller cranking and he sprinted after her, his legs pumping forward. She leaped over the dock, gripping the handle just as the ferry split from the landing, flushing out into the ocean.

He stopped at the edge, panting hot fog into the air, glaring at the shrinking figure ahead of him. If he had jumped he might have made it, but he stood still, watching the girl as she gained distance. "I never said I'd _stay_ in England, Ass-hat!" She yelled out.

She beamed back at him, grinning wildly between misty breaths. He knew that voice. He should just shoot her, right in the leg, make her easier to find. He could hear the buzz in his ear, the radio of the agents back in the van. "Solider. Soldier! Mission report! Do you have the target?" He stepped back onto the dock, his eyes on her still as she spun and boarded the deck. "No."

He turned and stalked back to the van, biting the inside of his cheek, hard. The pewter taste of blood filled his mouth when he entered the van empty handed. "This is Rumlow. The asset has not retrieved Pierce. She is aboard a seavessel and headed West. All clear." The agent behind the wheel spoke into a phone, and when he hung up the van took off, heading back to the hangar.

Rumlow turned back to him, a smug expression across his face. "Looks like she's outsmarting you, soldier." He faced forward again, and he leaned his head back against the walls of the van, feeling it rock back and forth. He would find her. He would complete his mission.

When they boarded the plane they set off to Ireland, a patch of green and white 20,000 feet underneath them. He was trying to remember when he'd seen her before, why she was conversant in his mind. The way her fingers wrapped around the cup of coffee, the movement of her head, the curve of her neck, the roguish smile she'd given. What was her goddamn name? He thought of colors, orange and red and green, but nothing helped.

He was left with the ghost of recollection when they landed in the blurry storm, coordinates 53.423066, -6.176997. She'd landed a few hours ago and was probably headed inland. She had nowhere to hide; the country was surrounded by water. The agents informed him that a helicopter would be sent when he retrieved her, that the plane couldn't fly in the storm.

He stalked the roads for a week, tracking, using the data HYRDA fed to him through his earpiece until he landed in a small village. The streets were covered in white, oil lamps lighting the pathways, music coming from every pub and hostel. Each window was packed with people, songs ringing out into the street. Signs were painted on the awnings and doors: " _St. Brigid's Day."_ Crosses and pictures hung from streetsigns, and he navigated the empty road, peering inside each window, trying to find his target in the midst of the celebration.

He wasn't seen, completely silent, hidden in the shadows and snow. He waited for hours until the patrons dissipated, stumbling into cabs and lodging, songs fading in the night. She'd popped out of the back of a pub, laughing and bumping into things. Drunk. She sauntered past the opening of an alleyway when he grabbed her, yanking her close. "Nno! No!" She numbly swung at him, missing his face, making hollow thumps against his arm. He squeezed her tight and she went limp almost instantly, huffing out an angry breath.

When he felt that she wasn't struggling he loosened his grip, and she pulled away, slamming her back into the brick wall in front of him and leaning. Her eyelids were drooped, muscles slack. "Well look who it is." She smirked, kicking a pile of snow in his direction. "You know, I can arrest you for stalking me." She leered, making a gun gesture with her hands. "Put em' up!" She took a step forward and slipped in the ice, falling sideways.

He caught her just before she landed, his hand wrapped around her ribs. He could feel them move and bend under his fingers as she shifted, standing again. Her hands were holding onto him, fists tight in his sleeve, strands of his hair brushing her brow. In the proximity he could feel the dull warmth coming from her stomach.

He grabbed her arm and started walking, moving out of the quiet town and towards a large hill, a flat patch of land at the top. The helicopter could get them there.

"Aww, come on Ass-hat, don't look so sad. You didn't know I was planning to jump the ferry, you probably didn't even remember me telling you that I was going to England in the first place! Shit, you don't even remember _me_!" She drunkenly slurred and chuckled, trying to catch up with his steps. He kept walking, ignoring her sluggishness.

"You know, if you wanted to get me alone so badly you could've just asked. This whole capture and retrieve thing isn't as sexy as you might think." She laughed at her own joke, tripping in the snow.

They neared the top of the hill and he pressed his GPS tracker, alerting the aircraft. Just a few minutes. The mission was almost complete. He jerked her forward and she hissed, slapping her palm repeatedly against his forearm.

"You don't have to be so rough, you know! God, how do you expect to make friends when you're being such a dick?!"

"I don't have friends." He said mechanically, and she pulled against his grip, hands coldly prying at his fingers. She'd lost her gloves; her fingertips were icy against his hand, and he questioned whether she could still feel them. "Yeah, that's to be expected when you're a fucking murderer."

He stopped and turned towards her, glaring down. She took a step back, her eyebrows low, lips parted, and a flash of remorse went across her face. "I'm sorry, I—"

He was following orders. He was always following orders. He had no will of his own, no mind of his own. Did she think he enjoyed this? Did she think he wanted this? The cold bursts of air that hit his back brought him to the cryochamber, to the laboratory, and in a blind fury he swung his arm out and hit her, the metal fist knocking her across the browbone and sending her down into the snow.

She yipped when she fell, and he didn't catch her this time, directing her into the icy floor. Her hands dug into the ground and he could see them tremble, reddening, then purpling from the cold. She sniffed sharply, breathing through her mouth, and she looked up at him, blood flowing out of a cut next to her eye. For the first time she looked afraid of him, just like everyone else, and he saw her eyes blinking fast, focusing in and out. She shivered violently, and when he reached down to lift her she flinched away, frosty hands out in front of her.

He could hear the helicopter in the distance, fighting the blizzard above them. When she moved to stand she stumbled, falling over and over, her breaths shallow. The alcohol had dilated her blood vessels, made her drowsy, and when he crouched next to her he could see the pallid tone of her skin, the blueish hue of her ears, the lost expression in her eyes. Those eyes…

Instantly he stood and grabbed a flare from his belt, shooting it into the sky to alert the plane. He crouched next to her and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close. _"Keep her intact and alive; only use force if necessary, which I'm sure it will be."_ Pierce's words were barely audible in his mind, some distant instinct replacing them, and he removed his jacket, tightening it around her. She swayed in the snow, strands of hair blowing around her like a tornado. He grabbed her face and studied it, trying to keep her conscious. He pulled his hand back to slap her, to keep her alert, but stopped when she finally met his eyes.

They were hazel. He remembered those eyes. They weren't just familiar, he'd seen them before. "What's your name?" He asked, and her eyes squinted.

"Wh-what?" She asked, the hypothermia creating a stupor. "What's your name?!" He gripped her shoulders tightly and she shook her head, a dazed expression on her face. "Ruby. My name's Ruby."

Ruby. Ruby. That was it. Suddenly his mind began to churn, to fill with hot water and drown him in fluency. "Ruby, hold on." He said over the sound of the helicopter and wind. He could hear the blades whirring above him, hear the agents inside his earpiece, but he kept his eyes on her, his hands on her shoulders, and in her stupor she stared back, fixated on him.

That was the second time he'd said it outloud, the two syllables linking together in his mouth, and he said it over and over until the plane was low enough for him to lift her in. The instant she was laid down on the floor of the copter agents were on her, a bag of fluids and heatpads and antiseptic being administered. He was placed in a seat and strapped down, but still he watched them secure her, wrap her in blankets, give her hot water after strapping her wrists in zipties.

They shoved her next to him and strapped her against the seat. "What, you think I'm gonna jump out?" She muttered, her voice weak and humorless. After a moment the plane had quieted and she turned her head towards him, eyes downcast.

"You know, I'm getting real tired of you forgetting all of our escapades." She said, and shifted her gaze to his eyes, eyelashes creating a shadow on her ruddy cheeks, hazel burning into blue. "You better remember my name this time, Ass-hat."

She smiled, and he felt her shift a little. He baulked slightly when he saw she'd leaned next to him, the damp curls of yeasty hair wrapping around the buckles on his jacketsleeve, heat beginning to transfer into him from her melting body.

The agents were opposite to them, some sleeping, some talking on a radio. He was grabbing hold of all the information his mind could carry, fighting to harbor memories, to list the details of this target, this woman who knew him. Back in the snow he felt it, the knowledge, the recollection. "Where will you go next?" He murmured, and he felt her twitch, a chuckle leaving her lips. "Definitely not anywhere cold. Maybe the beach. You'd like the beach."

When she was brought home Pierce didn't even look at her, instead bringing the asset into a study, facing out of the window. "She got away from you, Soldier. Don't let it happen again." He told him that another mission had already arose, two targets in Seattle, and before they could wipe him he was being briefed and sent out.

They didn't take his memory, not this time. For three days he remembered everything, the feeling of snow, of skin in his hands, the nutty smell of beer and the sound of music. It was miniscule, futile, but he remembered it. He would say her name under his breath, just to say it, just to know it was still there.


	7. Rijeka, Croatia

The next time he saw her she was in Croatia, just inside Rijeka, coordinates 45.329205, 14.460170. He'd tracked her to San Marino, Italy, but by the time he'd infiltrated the hotel she'd rented the bed was made and the curtains drawn, toiletries untouched. It was too obvious, he should have known she wouldn't be here. She'd taken an overnight trip on a shipping boat across the Adriatic, paid in cash, used a fake name. She also purchased a ticket to Montenegro, which threw him off her trail by a two days.

It took almost three weeks to find her. She'd rented three different rooms in different hotels, all untouched. When he finally found the spare room she'd rented he searched every corner, looking through her passport booklets, journals, brochures.

He figured he'd wait until she got back, stay quiet, be quick, but as the sun fell and the hours ticked he flipped through the pamphlets one more time, reading the different languages and addresses.

He ended up outside of the museum she went to; banners for an opening of a summer exhibit billowed in the summer heat, drawing crowds of black-tie civilians. Too many witnesses. He hid behind a building near the exit and waited, searching for his target.

" _5'7, 140 pounds, white, blonde hair blue eyes. Is there some way we can make him remember this shit so we can stop repeating it every time?"_ Rumlow's words led his search, and he scanned the crowd until he saw her leaving with a large group. She was smiling, and when she said something loud the crowd erupted in laughter.

They began to disperse and she started in the direction of her lodging. Now. He made a move to follow her but paused when a small group from the crowd followed, trailing behind. Five men, aged 25-35, Croatian. They were speaking lowly, eyes on her in a similar manner to his. Five witnesses; better than fifty.

By the time he rounded the corner of the alleyway they were upon her. She was slammed against a dumpster, a gun pressed under her chin, hands on her legs and arms. One was shoved into her, whispering something. The glint of a streetlight flashed in her vision, and her eyes flittered to the source. She could see his prosthetic, the vibranium shoulder plates reflecting in her eyes. Hazel.

He heard her say something, a low mumble, the words rolling out her mouth in a venom. "You're so fucked." The packleader grinned, breathing a laugh in her face. "And why's that? You gonna fight us all at once?" He heard him whisper. She shook her head, making eye contact with the soldier. "No. He is."

She nodded her head towards him and that was his cue. Instantly they came at him and they were on the ground in seconds, broken and dismembered limbs keeping them there. She'd run out of the alleyway right after she'd been released. She could be halfway out of town by now.

Once the witnesses were secured he exited the alley, turning his head in both directions to see how far she'd gone, but she was right on the other side, her back pressed against the wall, staring at the ground. Her dress had been ripped, the dark fabric hanging just above her thighs. She didn't run. She didn't even try to.

"Hi." She said quickly, inhaling and sniffing. When she looked up at him she gave a defeated smile. "Told you I'd go to the beach!" She laughed emptily and then shook her head. When had he told her that?

The silence stretched, and she met his gaze. "Thank you, soldier." Those words…they sounded so strange, so far away. For some reason he felt like he'd heard them before. From the same voice.

She sighed heavily and took a step towards him, reaching her arm out to touch his, placing her hand on the inside of his elbow. "Lead the way." She said dejectedly, refusing to meet his eyes. His eyebrows knit together and he started forward, his hand on his gun, peering out at the roads and tunnels. The van was waiting for him two streets over, agents poised to move out.

"You know, I didn't even want to come here. I mixed up my tickets and got on the wrong boat." She chuckled, keeping up with his steps the best that she could. "You've gotta admit though, that was pretty good. All the hotels? The bus tickets and brochures? Clever shit." She smiled up at him, and he saw the jagged blemish next to her eyebrow. He'd done that. He knew it.

"You didn't run." He said. Usually they run; run and hide, hide and die, run and die. Something in his mind thought of her more aggressively, more of a fighter. She shook her head, pursing her lips together. "Not tonight, Ass-hat. I just don't have it in me. Plus it wouldn't be very polite to kick your ass after you saved my life." She grinned wider, and he looked down at her. That is what he did, wasn't it? That wasn't normal for his missions, he wasn't sent out to save people.

He pressed the GPS signal on his belt and waited behind a monument for the van to come. She pulled away and stepped toward the fencing that lined a lake behind the statue, leaning over it. "You have no idea who I am, do you?" She asked, staring out at the water. "You don't remember anything. Nothing at all." He approached her, watching the back of her head move, trails of hair shaking around it. He didn't know her, no, but she was ghostly vivid in his mind.

"Jesus, _this_ is why I can't stand him. _This_ is why I can't be a part of this. SHIELD, The World Security Council…God, it's all bullshit!" She fumed, pounding her hand against the railing. "How can he really expect me to be a part of that? To be trapped in that house, in that family. The things he's done to people…I mean, look what they did to you!"

She turned to him and he could see the anger in her eyes. That, that was familiar; the wrath in her voice, the heat that radiated from her skin. He had to have met her before, but his mind was empty, random words floating around that made no sense. Fall, jitterbug, jaguar, orange, festival, pyramid, Christmas, star, hat, coffee, drunk, cold, beach. "You can heal in seconds, you can lift cars, but you can't remember me. You don't remember Egypt, or Paraguay or Ireland! You don't even remember your own name."

"I mean, what the fuck did they _do_ to you? Did they take your arm? Is that why you have that?" She pointed at the prosthetic. "That thing, in your head, that's not PTSD. You're not just a soldier, you're a machine, and they're controlling you!" She was yelling now, someone would hear her. He grabbed her, pulling her close and wrapping a hand over her mouth.

She fought against his grip as it tightened, her hair bunching up in his elbow, soft and thin. She elbowed him in the gut, twisting out of his reach and stepping back. "You know what? No, I'm not going back. You can tell my father to find someone else to fuck up." She lunged forward, kicking the inside of his thigh, punching his neck, dodging his swings and throws.

He wasn't going to hit her. His body wouldn't let him; it rejected the mission like a foreign body, attacking it. The metal arm stayed in its place, unwilling to harm this person.

She was fast, smaller and lighter than him. She knocked him upside his head, right on his ear, breaking the earpiece. The static rang loud in his head and he fought to yank it out. She kicked him on his side, sending him to the ground.

"Don't follow me, Asset. Not if you care." She said, and he turned his head up to her. She looked like she was about to leave, but she stayed. "And my name's R-" a light whipping sound rang out, and her hand shot to her throat, mouth agape, eyes wide with pain. She pulled a dart out with her fingers, panting, taking a step back before falling to her knees.

The van had pulled up, agents on the street with gun's trained on her. Rumlow had sent the shot, his weapon already back in its holster. "Let's not get caught up on names, Pierce. He won't remember them anyway." He said nonchalantly. She writhed on the ground, her muscles failing, vision blurry. "Bring her to the car, Asset."

He moved towards her, crouching next to her head. He touched a lock of hair that shielded her eyes, moving it so she could see, so he could see her. She was afraid. Why was that so, agonizing? Her fear was unsettling to him, derisible. "Asset! Bring her to the car." Rumlow repeated, and he scooped his arms under hers, lifting her and taking her inside the van. She couldn't speak, but she was conscious, staring up at him, a glossy tear sliding out of her eyes and into her hairline.

She was in a daze when they arrived at the manor, agents dragging her inside, feet scraping against the rug and marble. She was murmuring something, different forms of "no" barely audible on her lips. He moved to follow her, but Pierce stopped him, insisting on a debriefing and training for the next stage of Project Insight.

Before they wiped him he laid in his chair while the doctors checked his vitals and prosthetic. They had to pull out the broken pieces of his earpiece, tweezers placing tiny shards of reddish metal and plastic on the tray next to him. She'd hit him pretty good. He rubbed the side of his head and felt the dried flakes of blood in his hair. His hair was rough, all of him was, but he could rub his fingers together and imagine the softness of those pale yellow strands between them.

He thought about what she'd said: that he was a machine, controlled by Pierce. He looked down at the restraints, felt the mouthguard in his teeth. She never did mention HYDRA, like she didn't recognize the red star on his shoulder. He tried thinking of her name; something in his head seemed to expect the recollection, the letters to come together and form sound, but it was blank.

When he thought of his own name the same effect took place; the eager grasping for words and memories, just out of reach. B! B. There was a B. And a Y, a Y at the end.

He felt the first shock pulse through him when the word _BUCKY_ rang in his ears, dismantling instantly.


	8. Washington, DC II

"Of course, now that you know all of this, there can be no more running. You can't just leak this information to the world. This is where you belong. This is where you _need to be_."

Silence. Footsteps.

"I know this is a lot to take in, Ruby, bu—"

"No, two dicks at once is a lot to take in, _father._ This is… this is treason, sabotage, this is terrorism!" I wanted to stop, to turn around and run, but the STRIKE team behind us kept me moving forward, deeper into the levels of the Triskelion. I hadn't noticed it when I came down here in December, how the SHIELD insignia seemed to disappear from the walls, a massive tentacled skull painted instead, bright red on grey.

HYDRA. The words came out of his mouth like butter, a devotional regard for it. My father said SHIELD was where it truly colonized, where it flourished and developed after the Second World War. Nazis. That's all I could think; my father is a Nazi. Everyone at SHIELD is a Nazi. I am, by proxy, a Nazi.

"Don't be so crude, Ruby! HYDRA is meant to create order, to help the world make better choices, to achieve peace in the only way it can." He droned, and I felt my body prick in alert, the hairs on my arms and legs stand straight. The hallways were getting longer, colder, quieter. "By taking the choice away? Do you know how psychotic that sounds?" I asked, my eyebrows wound tight together.

"That 'psychotic' idea has saved your life numerous times." He said monotonously, and I turned to look at him, to read his face. "What do you mean?" I stopped and felt the hilt of a gun tap the back of my hip.

"Keep it moving." Rumlow muttered, and I started forwards, glaring back at him.

"Take a look." Father said, scanning his clearance key on a large metal door, larger than the ones I'd seen. The door unlatched and slid away, exposing the contents of the room. Supercomputers lined the wall, a large black machine in the center. Doctor's crowded around it, trays of tools and medicines by their sides.

"This is HYDRA's prized possession. Look familiar?" My eyes started at the ceiling, at the long wires that extended down to metal beams and projections, to an attachment with two lobes above a leather seat.

The doctor's noticed our arrival and pulled away, exposing him. He still had a mouthguard in, his face and chest covered in sheets of sweat. He was panting, muscles flexing under the skin, marled red and waxy where the metal was fused. I tried to stay composed, to be strong, but my hand rose to my mouth and I froze, my eyelids twitching. I was going to throw up.

"The Winter Soldier has helped HYDRA achieve many of its goals, including the evasion of international and local threats." He was speaking but I couldn't hear his voice. My heart thumped loudly in my ears. I took a step farther into the room, staring at his face.

The doctor yanked the guard out of his mouth, wiping it with a cloth. A technician worked on the plates in his metal arm, a nurse checked his vitals.

"This, this is…" I glanced around the room, all the pieces fitting together. "This is how you make him forget everything. His name, his, his memories… you just—"

"Wipe them." father started, his hands behind his back as he entered the room, regarding the machines with respect. "He is the perfect weapon. Dedicated to his mission, focused, loyal. He's done much more than pick you up when you ran away from home."

"He's killed innocent people. You made him a murderer for the sake of your _cult._ " I turned to him just as his hand swung out, a leathery palm slapping me on the cheek. I don't remember the last time my father touched me. The sound of angry blood whooshing in my ears distracted me, but the people in the room seemed to notice when the soldier struggled against his restraints, eyes on us, on me.

"I have done what is necessary for the sake of our country!" He boomed, the mask of patience breaking, revealing the fury underneath. "You act like loyalty is some kind of inconvenience; something you don't have time for. You run from your responsibilities and your future. HYDRA is the future of the _world_ , Ruby, and you can't outrun it." He scolded me, his hand waving in the air, the tie on his suit bobbing as he spoke.

I stared forward at the soldier, ignoring my father's tirade. What did they do to him? How many times have they ripped his memories from his hands? Suddenly HYDRA isn't the issue, the treachery of my father fading to the back of my mind. The man in front of me fills my thoughts, and I remember for the both of us.

"And he wants this? He wants to serve HYDRA?" I ask, and a silence stretches before my father snickers, shaking his head. "He serves without question, Ruby. What he wants is irrelevant. Soldier!" He addresses him, and automatically his eyes are glossy, his voice robotic. "Ready to comply."

Father smiles back at me, his lips stretched. "See?"

A spark ignites, growing in my mind till it's a mighty wildfire. I have a plan.

I put my hands behind my back, mimicking my father, and I step forward. The doctors back away, clearing a path for me. The soldier looks up, his brows fixed in confusion. Does he recognize me? I stop in front of him, feigning composure. My palms are slick with sweat, and they slide against each other when I lean down to his eye level.

"Ready to comply?" I ask, and he squints a little, mouth parted. I watched the stubble move on his chin when he grinds his jaw, watch the muscles in his arm flex under the restraints. He nods once, and I lean in by the side of his face, my hair brushing over his shoulder. I feel the strands of brown grace my cheek, and I pull close, my voice just quiet enough for him to hear.

"Sweden," when I speak my lips brush against his ear, the skin red-hot. I pull back and he's staring at me, eyes wide, breath slow. I give an unsure wink and spin back towards the room, my expression bored.

"What did you say to him, Ruby?" father asked, his eyebrows tight. "It starts with an F and ends with a U, daddy, I'm sure he'll figure it out. I've seen enough here." I walked past the STRIKE team, yanking an access key off one of the guards' belts and taking the elevator back up to parking.

At least I won't have to spend my birthday alone.


	9. Minsk, Belarus

Sweden was only her arrival point. She'd boarded a first class flight to Stockholm with a billionaire and ditched him when she landed, renting two hotel rooms outside of the city. She'd taken a cargo flight into Latvia and purchased three bus tickets, two going north and one going south. From there she took the train into Belarus. Four hostel rooms throughout the country were booked in her notable aliases, and he didn't track her down for a _month_.

For an entire month he'd checked each reservation, every bus departure. When he reached the Polish border he crept into yet another empty hotel room, no luggage, no clothing, no target. When he moved to leave he saw a slip of blue paper, a napkin, tucked under the mattress. When he retrieved it he could see it had been scribbled on in pen, a script that made smooth indentations in the paper.

' _COME FIND ME.'_

When he arrived in Minsk, coordinates 53.897109, 27.559120, the summer colors were slowly fading into fall, bright green transforming into yellow and red. Pierce was furious that it had taken this long to find her. She covered her tracks well, threw the Asset and the STRIKE team off her trail. When she disappeared in the night she'd beaten her personal bodyguards to the ground, leaving them in a bloody heap on the floor. They'd been assigned to her after she was informed of HYDRA.

Pierce told her she couldn't leave again, that she'd been sworn to secrecy and her life would be at risk if she chose to reveal anything. She didn't listen, and after she stacked her personal security on the dining room floor she boarded a plane. HYDRA hadn't been revealed, no information had been shared or exposed since her departure, but still Pierce fumed and stewed as they briefed him to retrieve her.

"This can't continue, not after she knows about us. You will bring her back, and she will be placed in a cell at headquarters." He said, pacing between the slabs of concrete. He stopped and faced him, stalking up with heavy steps, his eyes low.

" _Break_ her, soldier. Make sure she knows who is in control here."

When he was strapped up and ready to begin they led him towards the hangar, and he heard Pierce mutter something to his assistant behind them while they boarded the plane. "She's about to have the worst birthday of her life."

Birthdays. The word sounded to alien to him now. He was standing outside of a nightclub, waiting in the dark passageway, his gun tight against his leg, knives splayed around his hip. When was his birthday? What's the last birthday he could remember? The information vanished as soon as it appeared, lost in the vast blank space.

The agents in his headpiece told him they'd waited long enough, that he should infiltrate, retrieve the target and leave. It had to be now, move now. He unsnapped the seal on his holster and approached the side entrance of the club, kicking the lock open and stepping inside.

Heavy sound blasted in his ear, pulsing through his legs and chest. A swarm of bodies moved around him, ignoring him completely. The lights were low, streaks of red and blue bursting from the ceiling and casting strobes through the building. He stood still, surveying the crowd and searching for his target, her information scanning through his mind.

He didn't see her first. He met her eyes from thirty feet away, standing in the middle of the room, her hair falling over her chest in pallid waves. Her dress was short, swaying over her thighs when she took a step backwards, long, thick legs jutting out beneath it. He began to approach her, the crowd cutting around him. He was about to confirm his signal to the agents, announce his retrieval, but she smiled at him, just as he stepped into her ten-foot radius. A devilish grin, some knowing look spreading over her face, and she spun around, slipping into the mass of bodies and fading into the blur.

Quickly he followed, staying to the side of the wall, hidden, circling around the crowd. He'd lost sight of her as if she'd just disappeared. He cut into the pack of civilians, scanning for the top of her head, but she was gone. Just as he reached the back of the club he saw the exit, the steel door that had been pushed open, an alleyway behind it.

Instantly he burst through, surveying the passage, and he sprinted towards the next place he knew she would go.

She'd skittered out of the exit, removing her shoes and bursting through the backway. Her smile faltered a little as she rounded the corner, panting, running to the place she'd been taken residence for the past month.

A whole month. It was incredible. No family, no SHIELD, no HYDRA. She learned basic Russian and rented an apartment from a traveling family, all cash, as always. She left just the right clues and made sure to cover her steps. God, how pissed her father must have been to come home to see his best bodyguards in a pile on his antique Turkish rug.

They were easy to take down; sluggish from the carbs and weight of their guns. They tired too easily, and with three hits they were out cold. She liked it, her inconspicuousness, how no one thought she was capable of all of this. Well, now they know. Now they know they can't control her.

She slunk in through the door, tossing her shoes on the hardwood floor. The studio was tiny; a lifted mattress on one end, a kitchenette on the other. She tossed her hair and walked to a mirror hanging on the wall, a small console table underneath it, littered with brochures and tickets. She already had the next stop planned: a train into Poland, a flight into Germany, and then onto Denmark.

She caught a glimpse of something on the table, a crumpled pile of light blue underneath a bus ticket. She stopped, dropping her hands and reaching her fingers out, taking the paper in her hands. She unraveled it, fingernails pulling at the ends. _Come find me._ Her heartbeat quickened, and she looked up into the mirror, catching the silhouette of his shadow behind her.

She spun and faced him, bare feet sticky on the floor. He stood near the window, his mask removed, standing straight in front of her. She placed the napkin down and turned, taking a few steps forward. "Took you long enough." She simpered, inching closer and closer. He watched her pad towards him, the feint smell of soap caught in his nose. Her hair moved when she walked and instantly he was sore, his mind pumping with recollection.

Her face was so familiar, the light scar lining her jaw, her lip, her neck. She smiled wider when she saw his face distort, eyebrows knitting together and then relaxing. "Do you…" She started, eyes widening as they stared each other down. "Do you remember me?" She asked, and his brain sparked, colors and shapes flooding. A prick of pain shot into the back of his neck, a reminder of his orders. _"Break her, soldier."_

Instantly his prosthetic shot out, finger grasping the slender length of her neck and squeezing tight. Her eyes flared wide and she grabbed his wrist, clawing instinctively, hitting his forearm as he lifted her off of the ground and slammed her into the wall. "Stop! Stop!" Her voice strained under his grip, squeaking as she reached for him. His hand balled into a fist, coming up and punching her chin, her cheekbone, her temple.

She tightened up and shot out her foot, kicking him backwards. She collapsed to the floor and inhaled a deep breath, wiping the blood off of her lips. "This is getting old, Ass-hat!" She panted, leaping towards him, jabbing him in the neck, sliding under and around him, dodging the swings. Her hair whipped around her when she spun, and she kicked him hard in the shoulder blade. He flipped her, sending her to the ground, and she rolled just as his fist punched through the floorboard.

She could tire him out, he remembered that. She kept blocking his strikes, hitting him at his weakest points, evading his punches. She'd knocked him down and the fight seemed to ebb, both panting dense breaths. She stood on the other side of the room, her hands on her hips. "God, I must have really pissed them off, huh? They got you all riled up." She chuckled, a tired smile on her lips.

He stood and unlatched the gun, pointing it at her shoulder and glaring. She froze, all mischief fading from her eyes, and her hands rose in front of her. "Woah, woah. Hold on. Don't," She started, taking a step forward. _Beat her, beat her._ The words rung viciously in his head, deafening, and he squinted his eyes a little. _Soldier, soldier, soldiersoldiersoldier._

"Soldier." His eyes snapped open and she was right in front of him, blood at the cusp of her mouth, a cut on her temple that stretched into her hairline. He had done that. He had done all of that to her.

Her eyes, they were hazel. He'd knew those eyes. She placed her hand on his, placing pressure on his wrist, lowering the gun. Her fingers, long and pink, he'd seen them before. Oranges, she was holding oranges.

"Do you remember me?" She asked, and he blinked harshly, seeing her less and less as a target, as the mission. She was…someone. Someone to him. The battle in his head resumed, and he regained his stoic posture before shoving her down, reaching for the GPS tracker to alert the van.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." She said, sitting against the wall, her head leaning back. She lifted a burner cellphone from beside the bed and wagged it in front of her boredly.

"Don't think I'd let you off too easy. Look out the window." He squinted at her, turning his head towards the wall. He slowly approached it, peeking out into the street. The roads were packed, the entire building surrounded by police vehicles, officers scanning the alleys and rooftops. They were surrounded.

"As far as the police know there's a bomb threat three buildings next to us. There won't be any evacuations, but anyone who draws attention," she stopped, nodding at him, "could be apprehended. HYDRA wouldn't want that."

"So, it looks like you and I are stuck here for a few hours." He turned to her, confused. There was that devilish grin, the face of knowing. She'd tricked him. She'd trapped him.


	10. Cnianka, Belarus

He stared down at the street, at the flashing blue lights. He could count twenty-two officers, not including the crowd of civilians that gathered behind them. His chest expanded with anger, the women behind him still there, the heat from her body registering as a furious presence; she'd outfoxed him. "Why?" He snarled, turning to face her. She stood, defiant, wiping her bloody lip with a lazy hand.

"Because you need to remember. I know you can." She inched forward and he took a step back, the anger and embarrassment mixing in his gut. "But every time you take me back they wipe you; they make you forget everything. _Everything_. That's how they control you. The longer you wait the more it comes back."

She took a rushed stride, closing the gap between them, and he stared at the swelling on her jaw, bright red and scraped. He'd done that to her. Just now he'd hurt her, he'd hurt her when he didn't want to. " _Show her who is in control."_

Who is in control?

She jabbed two fingers into his chest, right above his heart. "Don't you want to remember who you are? Don't you want to decide who you get to be?" He felt the blood pump hastily through his veins, and his chest halted under her touch. _Yes._

He marched away and began to secure the room, shutting the window and blocking it, barricading the door, cutting the overhead light, putting his hands on anything that could bring him back to ground zero and overlook _her_.

She sighed and watched him move around, attempting to secure his target until the roads cleared and the agents could arrive. He wasn't listening. He was instinctively following orders, his will in others' hands. She placed her head in the meat of her palms, squinting the tears back into her eyes.

What if this was all a big mistake? What if he was never going to truly remember any of this, and even if he did, would he want to leave HYDRA? Could she even convince him to break from their stronghold? That was her goal when she boarded that plane, when she beat up every security guard in her home, to get him to listen, to get him to remember.

Her heart held tight to hope, the belief that the longer he went without being wiped, the better he could recall her and himself. She might have seen it, just a second ago, the recognition in his face. It kept her going, kept her holding out for a little longer.

When he finished settling the room he faced her, walking to the opposite side of the apartment and leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed. It looked like he was trying to get as far away from her as possible.

She shook her head and scoffed, hands upward. "Oh come on, I'm not gonna bite you." She leered, pinching the bridge of her nose. He's seen Pierce do that once, he thought. He couldn't remember when, evidently. The sensation of that half-memory made him angry, and he couldn't explain why.

His head was pounding. He hadn't gone this long without being wiped, and it was starting to mess with his head. Random words continued to pop into his vision, shades of colors, outlines of faces. She was looking off into the distance across from him, giving the chance to study her profile.

Three things stood out to him-made him feel eerily accustomed and solaced. Her eyes, a tell-all, golden green that exposed every emotion in detail. Her hair, thin and beige, almost prehensile in the way it wound around itself. Had he ever touched it?

But her hands, they were what drowned him in warm familiarity. Smooth fingers that held tight to themselves, that squeezed into fists, that grasped and held onto her arms. He knew that look, he had to. She was cold.

His eyebrows creased together and he felt his jaw grind, lips parting, lungs filling. "Why do you want me to remember?" He asked, his own voice unrecognizable. Her neck snapped in his direction, eyes squinted and then wide. "Because," she shook her head twice, blinking rapidly, "because you don't deserve this. Neither of us do."

She scooted back and leaned her head against the bed, tugging at the ends of her dress. "HYDRA can't control people's lives, they can't take their willpower and call it peace." She shifted her eyes to the window, her aggrieved expression mixing with fatigue. He bit the side of his tongue, head moving a little.

What had they taken from her? How could their situations possibly be similar? This woman in front of him was his opposite. Clean, soft flesh extended out from under her dress, light pink and glowing. Her hair and nails were groomed; she smelled like perfume and a shower. She smiled, often, and spoke without permission. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and she terrified him.

"As of…" She glanced at the clock on the stove, "thirteen minutes ago I am twenty two years old; legal age to become an agent of SHIELD." She pressed her head into the wall, hands coiled tightly around her arms. "Well I guess I would be an agent of HYDRA considering the circumstances. No wonder my father was always so hell-bent on me joining."

He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of her voice when he couldn't bear to look at her any longer. What was her name? He needed to remember it, to hear it, but he wouldn't ask. That wasn't part of the mission. None of this was part of the mission.

"I never wanted to be his kid, to grow up in his shadow. I just wanted to get away." Her voice felt like it could power him down, like he could rest in it. "You know, when I bought that ticket to West Virginia I thought I was really going to start over. Just…disappear, leave it all behind."

"But I could never outrun you, Ass-hat." He opened his eyes and she was staring at him, a small smile stretching across her face. There were tears in her eyes, paused at the edge. "You always brought me back. He wouldn't let either of us go. You started to feel more like home than that house did; even if you couldn't remember me."

He needed to remember her, he had to, right now. His eyes bore into her face, the mess of words rushing past his eyes. Fall, orange, Christmas, pyramid, slave, red, green, redandgreen, coffee, thankyou, cold, cold, she's cold.

He shut his eyes again, painfully, squeezing tight, and he heard her stand, walking across the room to him. Her hands touched the side of his arms and he flinched, almost swinging out and striking her, but when he opened his eyes she was right there, pulling him across the room and beckoning him to sit on the mattress, her voice quick and placid.

"What's happening? What's wrong?" She crouched next to him, her hands hovering over the sides of his face. She sounded concerned, like she cared, like his comfort was of some immediate importance. His breaths were coming out in heaving pants, the sweat building on his forehead.

"I can't remember." His brows were sore, squeezing together in frustration. She looked around the room, her eyes searching frantically, the gears in her head whirring. She rushed to the refrigerator, grabbing a handful of alphabet magnets off of its surface and hurrying back, arranging them in her palm. He needs to see.

"Okay, okay calm down. Look." She took his prosthetic in her hand, placing it in her lap. "I know you can remember, I've seen you do it." He heard clicking sounds as she placed magnets across the metal plates of his arm, her fingers precise and delicate. "Maybe you just need some help," She pushed his arm back towards him and he stared down. Four letters clung to his arm in a crooked line, all different colors. R-U-B-Y. Ruby.

" _Ruby_." He said it once and suddenly the veil lifted. It was the third time he'd ever spoken it, and like a chant it seemed to expand in the depths of his head, filling it to the brim. She was in front of him, staring, a small grin spreading over her face. She nodded once, breathing unsteadily.

She'd been freezing once, down in the snow without gloves, and he'd kept her warm. She'd been attacked by strange men and he'd protected her. She'd been cornered by a jaguar and he saved her. He'd hit her, beat her, and she fought him back with the same ferocity every time. He remembered her. He remembered Ruby.

The flashing lights had long faded, the police sirens mute, crowds gone. He felt her move next to him and she leaned in close, the hem of her dress sliding over her thighs, milky smooth, begging to be touched. "We can leave, tonight. We can disappear. I already have the bus ticket. Just come with me."

Her voice was breathy, the light casting a shadow over her clavicle as she moved to face him fully. He stared at the expanse of her skin, felt the curls of hair wrap around his arm, smelled her perfume. She radiated heat, and he thought that if he reached out she could burn him. _Ruby. RubyRubyRuby._

"You don't have to go back; they would never find us. You wouldn't have to be their pawn. You could be whoever you wanted." Who did he want to be? What could he possibly do for himself? What choice did he have?

"My mission…" He trailed off dimly, the resolve weakening, and his breath hitched when she rose, placing her hands on his body, the buckles and straps pressing into him.

"Is right here." She whispered. The top of her thumb touched his neck, and she pulled herself into his chest, her breath just ghosting his chin before the gap was closed, a quiet kiss between them. He could feel those hands, creamy-soft as they grazed his jaw, nails grating over his stubble. Her hair enveloped him, covering his eyes and ears from the outside world.

He thought he could just disappear right then, encased in her smell and sight and sound. She took his heavy hand and brought it to her waist. He could feel her ribs under his fingers, how they bent when he squeezed her. She pulled away, delving into his eyes, wide disks of blue staring back at her.

He wanted to know who he had been before this, his name and birthday and family; the Christmases he'd had before HYDRA retained him, the good things he'd done, if any. The tight red string that wrapped around his will tugged harshly and he wanted so badly to fight it, to be released, to keep his hands close to warm skin and have that voice fill the void of his mind.

That is what he wanted. To be free; to be right there in that moment and never forget it.

"Come on. We need to go before they catch u—" In a split second the soldier had her on the ground, shielding her from the debris that flew out of the doorway. The blast resounded through the floorboards and she screamed, her face pressed into his sleeve, a dusty film of drywall covering her head and back.

"Knock knock" Rumlow spoke as he strode forward, kicking chunks of the broken doorframe inward as he stepped inside, grabbing Ruby's elbow and thrusting her upwards. "You just can't follow orders, can you Pierce?" He looked down at her sordidly and knocked her across the back of her head, sending her forward into the doorframe where agents restrained her in zipties.

He stood, the dust falling off of his uniform, sliding down his prosthetic. Rumlow glared at him, the massive weapon in his hands pointing in his direction. "You're in deep shit, Asset." He said, leading the team out of the complex, throwing her into the back of the van before they secured him in the front, strapping him down and pulling the manacles tight.

He imagined that red thread, wound tightly around his existence, unwilling to release him. He could hear Ruby shouting in the back, kicking and biting and sending agents into the walls. For all of his compliance, she was vicious and defiant, yielding only when the sound of a taser rod pulsed through the van, dimming her voice, slowing her limbs to a crawl.

They stowed him in the cargo hold of the plane, refusing to let her near him, and for every time she woke up there was another fight, another agent being thrown across the cabin, and a final swing of the taser.

When they landed at SHIELD he could see each STRIKE member had a different injury; a black eye here, a bloody lip there, one missing tooth. Even Rumlow had a minor limp when he dragged her off of the plane, refusing to look at anyone but his superior.

There was no car to take her home, no bodyguards to escort her, no nurses to tend to her wounds. Instead there was only Pierce, who looked down at his daughter with unreserved loathing, all composure gone.

"You have disrespected me for the last time, Ruby. Your rebellion is over. Take her to a cell." He waved her off, and agents were already beside her, the insides of her arms red from being gripped and pulled. "And you," Pierce looked him in the eye, his wrinkled brows locked together.

"Your purpose is to serve HYDRA. If you cannot complete your mission without getting distracted then we will make _sure_ you do not." He spat, motioning for the team to lead him downstairs. "Wipe him. Then wipe him again, just to make sure." His limbs were stiff when the agents forced him forwards, and he stopped when he heard a scream.

"No! No! You can't!" Ruby cried, kicking the agents that held onto her, scratching and shoving against their grip. Pierce was turned away from her, preparing to leave, and in a second she broke forward, her words desperately spilling from her mouth. "I'll do it! I'll take the job!" She stepped closer to her father, the tears making shiny trails down her face. "I'll join SHIELD, I'll serve HYDRA, I don't care. I'll stop running. I promise. _Please._ Please."

He watched her defend him, her hands wrung and swollen, neck extended. Her eyes seemed to submit, conquered and despairing, ultimate surrender. She'd done that for him, for _him_. Pierce looked down at her as if she were a tool, something he could use, something he could finally manipulate; the tight screw that finally came loose. He sighed heavily, looking at his watch.

"Very well." He said with a lilt, waving her agents away, sending them to restrain the soldier instead. They cut her zipties from her arms and began to lead her away with Pierce, but she stopped, rushing over to him, standing close and touching his hand, shakily whispering into his hair.

"Don't forget." Her cheek brushed wetly past his jaw and she turned, following her father into a squad car inside the hangar, her head dangling low. The STRIKE team led him into the elevator, crowding around him in a circle as they descended into HYDRA's headquarters.

She'd placed something in his hand. It wasn't until he'd been locked in his cell and left alone that he opened his fingers, the small magnetic "R" fitting in his palm.


	11. Washington, DC III

He'd had four missions after that night, two wipes between. He never expected Pierce to honor the deal, to humanize his weapon. They would power him down, wake him up, brief him and send him out. They never mentioned Belarus, either. Pierce seemed to trust things were back to normal, that the last five years were smeared clean from his mind.

He didn't see her again until he'd been brought back from a mission; two scientists in Seol, making technology for Stark Industries that would aid in peacemaking operations. Peace was something HYDRA sought to deny every person of.

The STRIKE team led him from the hangar to the elevators; two agents stood on either side of him, their guns strapped too-tight against their chests. Rumlow pressed a higher level button and they were lifted. It was an odd sensation; they had never gone _up_ before, only down into the icy pit of the Triskelion. He flicked his eyes to the wristwatch of an agent. It was almost eleven.

"I'll let Pierce know we're back—wait here." He said to his subordinates, taking a step forward when the doors slid open. Alcohol. He could smell alcohol, mixed with the odor of florally perfumes and colognes. They were having a party.

She was leaned against the pillar of the room, half a glass of champagne hanging from her hand. It took six hours in total to get to this point between the hair and makeup and fits of rage. Her father looked around the room and raised his glass, gathering the crowd's attention. "I'd like to thank everyone who helped us get here tonight. It's been a long, hard road, but like always we've risen to new heights! Project Insight is underway and the future is ahead of us!"

His audience clapped, obligatory applause filling the room. Her father's eyes caught hers and she felt the acid rise in her throat, muscles prepared to gag. Her stomach went oily when he lifted the glass a little higher. "And as a great accomplishment, I can announce that my daughter will finally be joining the ranks of our society as a Level 3 Espionage Agent!"

The crowd looked at her, more empty claps ringing in her ears. "Looks like all that sneaking out paid off!" He joked, pearlescent teeth gleaming in her direction, and she gripped the glass tight when the room vibrated with laughter.

Agent. Espionage. The words sounded foreign on her lips, abhorrent and unfitting. When she was little the title was "Astronaut." In high school, "Olympian." Now it was anything that could make her happy; librarian, waitress, coach, teacher, wife. Her father had chosen her position and fate, citing her 'sneakiness' as a resume builder. It would be the perfect cover to serve HYDRA under. She never, ever wanted this. None of this. She felt paraded, displayed.

This is what defeat felt like; like having your hands tied behind your back and being pushed into a pool.

The dress she wore itched against her skin, sparkly and lurid. Wearing it was the most defiance she could muster, too-sexy and bright silver, something to make them uncomfortable, to show she wasn't afraid of being seen. Go ahead, look. I'll have you on the ground in seconds.

Her father had been talking, his voice blurring in the chatter of the room, and her focus was only regained when he exclaimed to the spectators. "Hail HYDRA!" The room repeated him, flutes of champagne raised to the sky, and she shuddered away, wrapping her arms around her ribs. HYDRA; it was the pyramid she would help build, the master she would serve. "Just another brick." She whispered into her glass.

She tried to remember what it was like when she was eighteen, running away from home for the first time, selfish and stubborn; back before she cared about anything but herself, before she gave her freedom away to save someone else.

A flash of black walked past her and she looked up, seeing agent Rumlow stride up to her father, whispering something in his ear. They began a discussion and she scanned the room anxiously, glancing at the open elevator doors.

Two agents stood in the entrance, young, incorrectly holding their guns against themselves. If they pulled the trigger they'd be shooting each other in the face. She noticed Rumlow was still in fatigues, his skin worn and dirty. They'd just come back from a mission. Her heart thumped and she ditched her drink, walking to the entrance of the elevators. If she squinted she could just see the shadow behind them.

She flung the side of her dress out, exposing her legs as she sauntered up to the entrance. Their stoic expression faltered a little when she approached them, eyelids low, lips painted. "You know, you're being rude." She said boredly, a hand coming up to rest on her hip. Their eyebrows furrowed and they looked at each other cross, glancing back at her. "W-what?" She sighed heavily, leaning up against the doorframe.

"That man over there? He's the _commander_ of HYDRA, and this is _his_ party. If he wants to speak with you then you need to be over there." One shook his head quickly, adjusting his stance. "Pierce wants to speak with _us?_ Nobody sa-" He started, and she scoffed, an expression of shock flashing over her face.

"Excuse me? Why do you think you're up here? You need to be present for the debriefing." She shook her head, feigning disappointment, and one took a rushed step forward. "But, we have orders to—"

"Rumlow is not the person you need to be worrying about disobeying, agents." She hissed, and they hesitated, looking back into the elevator before stepping out, walking in the direction of her father. She motioned for them to go faster and slunk in right after them, pressing the 'close' button on the door and spinning.

There he was, wrapped tight in his uniform, limbs stiff at his sides. He stared down at her, eyebrows flexed together, and she took a step forward, the hem of her dress dragging behind. His face was impossible to decipher, the resigned expression held firm, his lips in a tight line. "Hey." She said quietly, her hands nervously holding each other. His jaw clenched when she took another step, her breath coming out in a rickety draw. The gleam of her dress lit up in his prosthetic and she glanced down at it, biting her cheek.

They were silent for a moment, and she remembered they didn't have much time. "Do…" She started, trailing off. She huffed once and looked him in the eyes, exasperated. "Do I have to ask whether or not you remember me, because I'm really getting sick of it." She said, and he glared blankly down at her. When he didn't reply she slowly broke away, shaking her head, a heavy sigh leaving her lungs as her shoulders wilted.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She'd given up her freedom for this person and he couldn't even distinguish her.

"I should've kno—" She paused when his hand came up, reaching for a buckle on his chest. He unlatched it, reaching three fingers inside a pocket and retrieving something. He lowered his hand, fingers uncurling, exposing the tiny plastic "R" that lay in his palm. Her lips parted, eyes blinking quickly, and when she looked up he had moved closer, the irises of his eyes reflecting her sliver gown.

She was stunning. Every inch of her was recalled, every detail memorized. He remembered her. His aching, beaten mind could still link the syllables of her name together, could still imagine her hands, still picture her eyes and the fire beneath them. And she was here now, every puzzle piece fitting together, everything making _sense_. "Ruby."

His voice made everything worth it. She reached a hand up, gracing his jaw, the rough expanse of stubble scratching her fingers. He remembered. She wanted to embrace him, to smile and laugh and cry and say some smartass comment, but the agents would be back soon, and she had to be quick.

She promised herself that if they saw each other again she would tell him; give him the directions, the coordinates, the blue napkin. The duffel under her bed sat in waiting, just in case he ever said yes, just in the chance that the story didn't end in Pierce's handwriting.

She pulled close, her face right next his, and spoke simply. "Bucharest. I already have a bag packed. Meet me there and I promise we will never go back." Her lips moved so quickly, and he felt her grip his arm, her hair whisping against it, the fabric of her dress gracing his fingers.

Ruby pulled back, her gaze boring into him, and she angled her head down slightly. "Okay?" She said expectantly. He could hear footsteps coming closer, quickening. His hand squeezed a lock of hair, the meat of his palm pressing against her wrist. He nodded once and instantly she spun, opening the elevator and hurrying out, the dress following her in a fluid motion.

The three agents entered the elevator rapidly, Rumlow's face red, his voice loud and rebuking, and Pierce followed him inside, standing at the entrance as the machine sunk down, the air chilling, the hallways mute.

He expected Pierce to summon him the day after, to tell him his unruly daughter had gone off again, that he'd have to fetch her, that he would find her and keep her and escape…but then one day became two, and then seven, and when he finally was brought to the briefing room her name wasn't even mentioned.

Pierce told him that Insight was in its final stages, that he had a new mission, and when he was read the statistics of his target they were different than hers. Male, 6', African-American. Nicholas Fury. When they led him to the elevator he heard Pierce's assistant ask if anyone would be sent to retrieve _her_ , and he shook his head, muttering through a clamped jaw. "This operation is more important than anything else. What happens to her now is none of my concern."

He was strapped up with weapons, his face covered. He was guided by a van full of agents, given orders to shoot, and he thought he'd be sent out once it was over, that he would leave when the mission was complete, that he would find her. But then he saw him in the street, the man who knew him, who called out a name he didn't recognize, a shadow in his mind. "Bucky?"

When they wiped him it only got worse, the bright strobes of past moments flying through his head, images and faces and names that couldn't connect. Red, white, and blue. Weeks passed and the Project was initiated, and that man became his new mission, to stop him, to kill him.

He disappeared the day the helicarriers fell from the sky. He'd saved him, that person, the Captain. He dragged him out of the water, staring down at his body, the tie to his past, and then he just…started walking. No one came looking for him, no squad came to retrieve their soldier. He'd been set free.

Bucky. Bucky Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. A face like his stared back on a glass plate, a life and death laid out in front of him as a museum artifact. Seventy years he'd served that red skull. And there was Steve. Steven Rogers. The Captain America, the man in the water. His head swelled with information, with details and evidence and fragments. This is who he was. This was him.

He left town, stowing away on a boat to France, riding trains and trucks inland, through Switzerland and Austria and Hungary. He stopped when he reached Romania, the chill of winter air pushing him to a large sign beside the road, to a word that hung in his mind, just barely identified. Bucharest. " _Meet me there and I promise we will never go back."_


	12. Bucharest, Romania

Six months. It took six months.

Month one was easy. I didn't waste time with detours and secret hideouts. I flew to Hungary and took a bus to Budapest. My technique was sloppy, but I didn't care; I wanted to be found as soon as possible. I used my real name, walked in the sunlight, and rented a real apartment. Romanian was a challenge to learn, and I spent my nights listening to the neighbors above me when they talked over dinner. Excitement turned into concern as the days droned on, suns setting outside the window. That first month I didn't even see a TV screen, and it wasn't until I was leaving a café one morning that I saw the news.

 **SHIELD CRUMBLES. HYDRA REVEALED. HELICARRIERS CRASH INTO POTOMAC. ALEXANDER PIERCE ARRESTED. CAPTAIN AMERICA ALIVE.**

Reporters spoke in rushed dialect, large white letters zipping across the screen. My heart slammed against the walls of my chest, coffee abandoned, my mind unable to hold on to a question before another took its place. I'd ran into the main street, buying every international newspaper I could find, scouring the reports of a streetfight in Washington involving a man with a metal arm and Captain America. My father was in prison, his cult uncovered, the nation in a state of unrest, and all I wanted was to know where _he_ was.

They were still looking for him. The US government issued a statement that he was a wanted man. No one had been captured, no suspects listed. I waited, and waited, and waited. One month became three and the fall turned the city a burnt orange. The first day I noticed the leaves changing was when the world learned his name, when I first heard it. James Buchanan Barnes. 'Bucky.'

HYDRA's secrets were broadcast to the world and I devoured everything I could, every little detail down to the amount of voltage they used to rub his brain dry. I cried, every day, usually in the evening when I sat alone in front of the fireplace, maps and newspaper clippings in my wrought hands.

Seventy years, seventy years he'd been a brick in their pyramid, killing hundreds for their agenda. There had been a picture of him in the Smithsonian for three months and I never knew about it. He'd existed for two lives, and he'd had both taken from him. No, he couldn't be dead, right? I hadn't played a part in this, had I?

I like to think I'm not as much of an asshole as I used to be, that I at least tried to be better for someone else, to give him a shot at freedom even if it meant compromising mine. Isn't that how saints are made? When they commit the ultimate act of selflessness?

Even if it meant keeping his mind intact for one more day I would have done it all over again, and I can't quite decide whether that's stupid or justified.

I could blame who I was on my roots, on the years of isolation in Connecticut boarding schools, on the fact that I'm an only child, on the principle of Alexander Pierce's child-rearing ability. When I left home that first time it was because he'd told me I would train to be a SHIELD agent that summer after I graduated, that I had no choice in the matter. I didn't think it was rebellion, I didn't think I was unruly or wild, and didn't give a shit if anyone thought it was.

I ran from D.C. thinking 'this is it, I will never go back.' I saw a bumper sticker on a truck at the bus station that read _"West Virginia: Wild and Wonderful,"_ and I decided that was where I needed to go. I met that crew of stoners just inside the state and asked them to take me inland; that's where I developed the formula for meeting strangers, the method in which I covered my tracks, how I could become a different person and a great liar.

I didn't wake up until their van was flipped on an empty highway, Andrews Sisters playing on the radio, pitch black outside. My shoulder'd been cut and I thought sparks had popped in the engine when I climbed out, that the sound I heard couldn't have been bullets, but then I saw him. That red star on his shoulder barely lit up in the blaze of the fire he'd set, all of him a shade of black. The streetlights had been blown and the road was abandoned, miles of trees absorbing my voice.

Even despite New York, the Avengers, HYDRA and whatever else is out in the universe, I have never been one to be afraid. Instead I've only gotten angry, red in the face, fists flying. That's how I got to know my soldier first, as a blind swing to his cheek, cat-claws and screaming.

He brought me home every time. Even when I fought my hardest, when I cussed him out and kicked below the belt I was dragged back to my doorstep like game.

Those first two years I balanced on the line of hating him when he caught me and liking it when I got caught, because being getting caught meant seeing him, trying to decipher who he was, getting him to remember me. Fighting felt like flirtation, and seeing his face curl in recognition when he heard my name made the broken bones worth it.

Paraguay, Egypt, they were beautiful places that I thought I might make a home if he didn't catch me, might give that word a meaning. I don't think I've ever tried to make places significant; they were fleeting, means to get me farther away from my father and my fate. Home used to be nonexistent-after that it took the form of a person.

Three months turned into five and I adapted to life in that city, trying to learn it, to make it home- _like_. My clothes were less flashy, less East Coast, and my behavior was humble. I made actual friends and shared stories about my life, the real one.

At night I would wander, looking into alleys, tracking the shadows, hoping that I would catch a glint of Vibranium in my vision, see a silhouette on the rooftops. I couldn't go back to the states, not when there was nothing left.

I told myself I would hold out, would make my life _mine_ finally. That bratty eighteen year old girl could still be heard, scratching and fighting: 'I will never go back.'

But still I sat alone in that apartment at night, begging up at the ceiling that I could find him, that karma would cut me some slack for all the times I up and disappeared. I searched until five months became six, and I can't believe I'd been looking for black fatigues, for a flashy prosthetic arm and an arsenal of weapons, because that's not what he looked like at all.

I'd promised the older neighbors upstairs that I would cook them dinner if they could help me with my Romanian one evening, and I went to a market that was open late, grabbing tea and spices. When I started to walk back it was snowing, tiny weightless flecks burrowing into my coat and hair. I pulled my scarf tighter, walking with my legs close, trying to stay warm.

I had my chin angled down, breathing hotly into my hands, having forgotten the gloves yet again, and when I looked up I saw a man at the end of the street who was wearing a baseball cap, and I thought "how American."

That was it. That was all that I'd noticed, just his hat, and I felt the icy wind fly against my face. I almost looked down to bury myself further in my scarf, almost disregarded how easily he handled the cold, how he walked into the breeze like he couldn't feel it.

I squinted, lifting up and watching his steps, feeling myself step a little faster, my heart pumping warm blood a little quicker. That gait…He walked ahead of me, long hair hidden under a jacket. No black cargo pants, no semi-automatic at his back, no prosthetic. He wore two black gloves, arms frozen at his sides. My heart was slamming against my ribs now, my face burning like we were back in that desert heat, hands red and shaky. The tin box of tea jingled in its bag, stuffed inside my coat.

 _James Buchanan Barnes._ The words sang through my body, reverberating in the winding ridges of my brain. Was it? Was it really? I followed him for another block, getting closer and closer, keeping as quiet as possible, muscles tight.

Flakes of snow fell into my eyelashes, fogging my vision, and I felt like it was now or never, right now or not at all, so I stopped, watching his figure gain distance. _Nevergobacknevergoback._ The words hung on the roof of my mouth, letters linking together, and in a robotic movement I opened my mouth.

"Bucky Barnes?" The words had never been used, snowflakes melting as soon as they landed on my lips. I could almost hear them hit the ground when he stopped, hands flexing into a fist. _Oh my God_.

He stood still, standing away from my vision, and my knees locked taut when he turned, three steps to face me. I could see my breath leave me in pants, visible in the air. There he was, eyes wide, those eyebrows knit together as if everything I ever said was in another language. My soldier stood before me, staring me down.

I took three steps forward, nearing him, my eyes taking in every detail, every line of his face and mouth. Not a soldier, no. Bucky Barnes. I want to say it, to ask that question, to ask him if he knows, if he remembers, but my heart's beating too fast; my brain's short-circuiting. Right before I can speak he says something, something small, fast on his lips.

"Ruby."

He speaks my name and the spell is broken, my feet carrying me forward, mind quiet, and I forget all caution when I shoot my arms up and wrap around him, fingers clutching the back of his collar, my face buried into his clavicle, chest pressed close. He's freezing, and I can feel his heartbeat thunder against mine.

The tears mix with melted snow and I feel him hesitate, slowly coming up to speed before his hands are on my ribs, then the crown of my head, his mouth close to my ear, inhaling sharply. I shake once, my hands tightening on his jacket, and I can just barely speak, a broken smile pressing into his neck.

"You're late." I say it as if I might crumble, using what's left of my humor, and I can feel his body vibrate with a chuckle, his throat moving against my temple. He laughed. It took me six months to get to this point, to right now, and I hear my own voice in my head. 'This is it. I will never go back.'

"Consider us even." His voice is warm, scratchy, and I can feel his breath in my hair. I pull away and look at him like it's for the first time, relearning his face, reading those Sinatra eyes. I touch his chin, my fingers frozen, and he takes them in his hand, the wool of his gloves warming them instantly.


	13. Bucharest, Romania II

She led him back to her apartment, keeping him close, arms wound around his and squeezing every few seconds. Just to make sure this was real, to make sure he was real. Her home was a stark contrast from the place he'd taken lodging; a full kitchen, painted walls, curtains. He almost felt ashamed when she asked where they should go, unwilling to show her the slummish mattress-and-fridge closet he was staying in. That's not how he wanted this.

When they came to her door an older woman shouted down from the stairwell asking what she'd gotten, and she spoke in broken fragments of Romanian, teasing that she'd found a man instead. "I could have him for dinner!" She hollered, and Ruby shook her head twice as the locks clicked open.

He looked at her walls, studying the dried flowers she'd pinned against the windowsill, the lustrous sheets she'd put on her bed, the stack of newspapers she'd basketed next to it. He watched the movement of her hair as she took her coat off, placing it in a closet.

When she turned back to him he gulped the pool of saliva in his mouth, his mind racing with images of her that he couldn't categorize. It was like a kaleidoscope of blinding details: beige hair, pink skin, cold hands and long fingers and soap. Fire pricked through his veins, warming him from the inside out.

"Do you want me to clean that?" She motioned to a cut on his cheekbone. She didn't ask how he'd got it, and he didn't want to tell her he'd had a nightmare that ended with his prosthetic slamming into his face, beating against his warped brain. She strode over to a cabinet and pulled out a sewing kit with first aid ingredients, motioning for him to sit on her couch, wiry fingers unwrapping a sanitizing pad.

"Human after all, huh?" She smirked, brushing the hair from his jaw. She was doing anything she could to touch him, to secure the reality. He wanted to say something, to make up for all the times he'd been silent with her, but the sting of cold alcohol on his cheek brought him back to her eyes, leaving him stranded again. While she wiped the scabs and dead skin from his face he studied hers, analyzing every mark and scar.

He could see each tiny white dot, every line, every point where her skin had been broken and torn. He felt the rocks pile up in his stomach, the acquainted sense of guilt building in his gut. He reached up a finger and barely graced the bottom of her chin, bringing her gaze to his. "I'm sorry I gave those to you."

He could feel the winter fade when she smiled, shaking her head a little when she rubbed a dot of antiseptic on him with the flesh of her ring finger. "Ah, don't give yourself too much credit. I played lacrosse." She shut the tin and placed it aside, hair covering her face when she leaned down.

Ruby. He'd been looking for her for so long, not knowing how to find her. His mind had flooded with information when he escaped, filling up journals and notepads by the handful. She was five years in a sea of a hundred, though, and in all the mess he'd wound up wandering the streets at night, hoping he could catch her, hear her voice inside a room, see a wisp of tan hair flutter out a door.

There'd been a day he sat across from a farmer's market, staring at a crate of oranges for hours and not knowing why.

"How's your head? Memory speaking." Her hands made an awkward motion as she leaned into the couch, her neck angled closer to him. He wanted her closer, to be right inside his jacket, pressed against his skin like a heater.

He removed the hat slowly, roughing his hair with his hand before taking his gloves off as well. The silver glinted in the lamp next to him, lighting up her face. She didn't view him as a weapon, she didn't flinch away in fear. She hadn't for years. To her he was just a man now. For the first time he was human. He shook his head slightly, looking away.

"It's…blurry. I can remember some things, but there's a lot of holes." He heard her nose, breathing softly, eyelashes casting gusts of wind when she blinked, and she moved suddenly, an expression of purpose crossing over her face.

"Well, let's fill them." She said simply, scooting a little closer and tossing strands of hair over her shoulder, that desert heat beating into his skin. "You tell me what you remember, and I'll help clear it out." His eyebrows almost furrowed, sore from how many times he'd done it before, but he tentatively nodded, watching her.

"I remember the first time I saw you... I had to knock you out twice just to keep you still." Her lips spread into a smile and she nodded, blinking slowly. She might have been tired. "And a jungle. I was bleeding."

"Yeah, you got attacked by a jaguar. Tore you to shreds." She said, scanning his chest and arms for the lack of scars. He didn't mention the people he'd killed to get there, the kids in the van, and instantly his head was pounding, a blanket of red covering his eyes.

"You saved my life." She almost whispered, giving a sad smile, motioning for him to continue. "I remember pyramids." Her smile grew and she tossed her head back, eyes closed. "Pyramids. That was Egypt; not, not our best run. They were pretty incredible, though." She forewent the detail that she'd barely looked at them before he dislocated her jaw with his fist.

He saw her eyes flicker in the light, gold and green and full of memory. What did she have to do with a thing like him? She had to be leaving out all the times he'd hurt her, all the punches he'd thrown, the times he'd hauled her home like a dog, the monster he'd been. She looked at him and squinted slightly.

"Do you remember Christmas?" She asked, and the veil of red was divided by bright green, his brain recalling the crumble of cookies in his hands, the taste of vanilla in his mouth. "You were wearing velvet." Instantly she laughed, loud and short, covering her eyes with her fingers. "Oh, that dress! I hated it so much, it made me look like a choir boy."

Her smile seemed to open up a hallway of doors, a wave of memories spilling out, each one more tender than the last. Listening to her devise her next plan on the plane ride home, smelling the shampoo in her hair, the mud on her legs when she'd come back from a festival, a mouth sticky-sweet with candy, the pictures of her in Pierce's home, the slinking of her arm into his, her drunken steps, her raucous laughter and smart mouth, her absolute defiance.

He remembered how Rumlow said she could never be a soldier because she couldn't follow orders, and how he thought otherwise. She was a fighter, a fiery life-force. She would have made the Nazis shake in their boots.

Her laughter made his lips curl up, made his muscles tense and then relax. "I remember Ireland. You had hypothermia. I," there was that flash of red again. "I—" his voice faltered when he remembered that he'd knocked her down, how she'd flinched away in fear, but she cut him off, her hand reaching out for his shoulder. "You saved me, again. And again in Croatia, and in Belarus."

She leaned forward and grabbed him, facing him fully. "You never hurt me, Bucky, alright? That wasn't _you_ , and I know that, okay? I knew it for years." Her voice was milky and gentle, and her thumbs rubbed against his skin, soothing the tight muscle.

When he finally caught her eyes she smiled, some rascally glint, and he knew she was about to say something smart, something that would break his resolve and thaw him out. "And don't think I didn't kick your ass plenty of times. _That_ you should remember."

He grinned, cheeks tight, his eyes closing for a second. Ruby, finally, Ruby was here.

"What else?" She asked, and he could feel her legs rest against his thigh, warmth transmitted between them. "It was your birthday. You were wearing black, and your hair was…" He held a hand out, trying to explain it, and he could feel her lean against the spine of the couch, head on her arm.

She was almost twenty three now; that'd been five years, five years of running and hiding and seeking and fighting, five years of blonde hair and long fingers and pink skin and bruises and fists and _Ruby_. He remembered the kiss, the way she put herself in front of him to stop Pierce, the way her dress glittered and scratched against his fingers, how she smelled and sounded and felt in his hands.

"I think you got it down." She said, grinning up at him and scratching the crown of her head, glancing over at the pile of newspapers. Unexpectedly she caught a second wind, her shoulders perking slightly.

"So Captain America. What's he like?" She asked, bringing her knees to her chest. Bucky paused, letting out a quick chuckle. He'd been one of the first people to call Steve that, and even now it felt strange. He'd always been just Steve, skinny, gentle, good-guy Steve. It hurt to think of him, to imagine his body beside the Potomac, to envision how he'd almost killed his only friend. The journal inside his coat pocket burned, filled with facts and dates and moments they'd shared.

"He was my friend, before all of this." He lifted his hand, the metal one, staring at the plates and links. "We grew up together. He was always getting into trouble, sticking his neck out for other people." He stared off, fixed on the wall, his mind a shade of sepia. _Steve, Steve, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Steve._

" _Inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield!"_ Ruby stuck a fist out, quoting the exhibition in a deep voice, smiling cheekily. He laughed slightly, shaking his head of the reminiscence. "You saw the exhibit?" He asked, and she shook her head, nodding to the newspapers. "Nah, I never tried to do much in DC except for leave it." She started, her eyes squinting in a playful manner. "Heard you were quite the ladykiller in your day, though."

Bucky felt the strange wave of mortification shoot through his limbs, and Ruby noticed, grinning wildly before she broke, chuckling at his demise. Embarrassment, he hadn't felt that in decades. She could make any man feel small.

She was absolutely terrifying, he thought, and she must have known it, by the way her eyes burned hot into his, how she dauntlessly crept closer to the Winter Soldier, how she bore each scar as a sign of her capability. He wanted to touch her again, to fall under that spell, to be drowned in something good. "I've missed you." His eyes were closed, and in the moment he couldn't tell if she'd said it or if he did.

Her yawn broke the haze, splitting the fog of his mind, and when he focused on her she was standing, holding out her hand. "Well I won't hold it against you if you're a little rusty, so I'll ask first." She faced him, ample cheeks red from being rubbed. "You busy tomorrow?" She arched an eyebrow, and Bucky almost laughed aloud, grinning at the ridiculousness of her question.

"Not that I know of." He said, puzzled at her expression. She unlocked her door, flipping her beige hair when she turned. "Good! You can pick me up at seven. Or six. I know you old-timers need to get to bed early." Ruby leered, handing him his gloves. Had they just made plans? Ones that didn't end in a bloody mess? Was she really asking him out? Was she really making him leave?

Just as he passed through the doorway she followed and held him tight, nuzzling close to him, his nose buried in her hair. Her lips pressed into his jaw, breath all coffee beans and tea. "Don't forget."

Instantly he was filled with hot water, his veins pumping steam, and his brain fired through every time she'd asked if he remembered her, if he knew her name, every time she ordered him not to forget, and he knew he couldn't. Not this time. "I won't."


	14. Bucharest, Romania III

Ruby pulled the coat tight around her waist, fastening it with quick fingers. It was six fifteen and the sun had modestly made its way onto the rooftops, ready to vanish for the day and leave Bucharest in the snow, to its own devices. "This better be a good idea," she whispered.

She'd wanted him to stay the night the yesterday, to keep him close and to make up for lost time, but she could see how she spooked him, how tender his mind still was, the flesh pulled back and the nerves exposed. She saw it when Captain America came up, Steve, when he was reminded of what he'd done.

She stopped when the straps pulled tight around her, pausing to inspect her hands. Those hands had seen hell. She'd had her fingernails ripped from the quick, had her knuckles busted open and ripped to shreds. Her palms had been calloused by sport, by training and combat. Her wrists had been sprained and twisted behind her back till her thumbs were in her spine. Her fingertips had touched hot and cold and flesh and metal, had been broken into jagged angles. All by the man who was taking her out tonight.

Her shoes were curiously nostalgic, a memory of her days at school, of when she was younger and partook in things like this. The shuffling outside her door brought her up to speed and she ran to it, swinging it open and stepping out of the apartment, unsure of where the path led, which direction the night would go in.

He was there, his hand on the stair railing, chest rising in broad inhales. Had he ran? His clothes were unassuming, his hair capped. "I'm late." He said quickly, and her lips spread, flashing feline teeth. She shook her head, locking the door before taking his arm in hers. "It's fashionable, Sergeant Barnes." She nodded at the upper level with a grin. "Come on, before my neighbor takes you hostage." Her bright shoes clicked on the wood as they descended the stairs together.

She could feel his bicep tense when they walked, his eyes scanning the roads and backways, observing each car that drove past. He was still checking for agents, still looking over his shoulder. She whispered in his ear, making him flinch towards her with wide eyes. "Nobody's hunting you tonight, Bucky. You can relax." Her tone was genuine, comforting. Her hand rubbed his forearm, ungloved as usual, and he looked out into the city, lips in a tight line.

"I'm not so sure." He mumbled, keeping a slow pace, his eyes checking the windows and rooftops. She patted his shoulder, pulling him to turn on the street. "Don't worry. I'll protect you." She said casually, donning a smug smile. He softened slightly and looked down at her, at the mane of hair that twisted into the crook of his elbow and the peek of her fingertips from inside his arm. That hair, a mind of its own. Still a new concept to him. Hesitantly she tilted her head, speaking in a less flippant tone.

"Do you think he's out there looking for you? Steve?" She inquired, eyeing the brick tiles underneath their feet. He ground his teeth, staring ahead. "I don't know. As far as I can tell I'm an enemy of the state. It doesn't exactly put us on good terms." His words hung heavy, and she angled her head farther down. "I think he's just happy you're alive. I mean, if he's still Steve to you chances are you're still Bucky to him."

Her voice was relaxing, or attempting to be, but still his fist clenched at her side and he shook his head. It still hurt: the sections of his mind labeled _Steve,_ the memories of himself being a good man. "There's no way to know that. I think it's better if he doesn't find me."

His expression was visibly torn, the abrasion on his check twitching when he clenched his mandible, and she chose not to dig any deeper, to go slow and be careful. God, she had to be careful. Instead she disengaged him, using her wit to bring him back out of the mist, to keep him there with her and remind him that the nightmare was over. "Well I don't know about you, but I'm great at hiding out. I've had a _lot_ of practice."

He looked down at her and caught the jest in her grin, loosening his jaw to allow a dim smile. "That's not how I remember it." He said, and she beamed, leaning her head back, exposing the flesh of her neck. "Ah, you're ninety-nine, I'm sure it gets away from you."

He saw a tunnel ahead of them, lit with yellowed lamps and declining into the ground. "Where are we going?" He asked, and she shrugged, keeping in pace with his long legs. "West, I think." She pulled him again, descending a stairwell inside the tunnel, poorly lit, and he could feel his hair stand straight, his grip tightening on her. Protect, need to protect. "That's not what I meant."

He was ready to stop her, to tell her they needed to get back to the main level, that they weren't safe, but he heard a sound, something familiar and deep and convivial that indistinctly reminded him of a good time, and instead he followed Ruby's lead farther into the underbelly of the city, listening for it.

They walked out into a lower level of the road, the rumble of cars buzzing over their heads. "Oh! We're here." She stopped him outside of a door, slipping a bill into the mailslot and waiting until she heard the locks unlatch.

She'd found this building in November after a night of fruitless searching, losing herself in the veins of the city, and she made a loose promise that she'd take him here should they find each other again. Finally she could keep her promises, and he could remember them.

There was that sound again, that cadence that flung him to the past, to youth and bygone years. Fingers slid to his hand, pulling him inside, down a black hallway, and he almost pulled her back, almost tried to find an exit, to search for any signs of danger, but suddenly a curtain was drawn and he recognized the tune. It was a trumpet, a trumpet was playing.

The room was aglow with aged chandeliers, a pit in front of them lined with shiny wood floors, a band of suited musicians jiving on a stage. Circular skirts spun in wide rings, leather shoes slapping against the ground, legs and arms and bodies swinging in congruence. Ruby's voice filled his ears, and he saw her arms unlatch the fastenings of her coat at the corner of his vision.

"I know you weren't around for Ella but I think they can do Benny justice." It was gibberish to him, the music filling his head like water, muffling everything else. His heart thundered inside his jacket, and when he turned to look at her it felt like lightning.

Under her coat she was donned in red, a full skirt flowing out from her arched waist, top fitted and high-neck. That's the first time he'd seen her in that color. She looked straight out of a sewing pattern, straight out of a daydream. Now her shoes made sense. He'd come to take her dancing.

She glanced around expectantly, absorbing the room. This could completely backfire; trigger some horrid traumatic experience, resurface stickily painful memories, or it could go horribly, horribly right. "You don't have to hide here." She said gently, taking his hat off and smoothing the back of his hair. She could have been a furnace, a bright flame burning him to the maximum degree.

"Well?" She broke his silence, taking a step near the floor, her expression keen, chin high. She eyed him like an O'Hara, unsettling and inviting all at once. "You gonna keep a girl waiting?" She asked in a vintage tenor, reaching a hand out to him.

Bucky felt his legs unfreeze, suppliant to move forward, and as her skin met his the room fell to pieces at his feet. The skirt brushed against his shins when they came close, and she placed his hands on her, just like in Belarus. "You've still got some muscle memory, right?" She quipped, and before he could voice any concerns or fall into the pit of his mind again she spun, fingers in his palm, and the band roared with vigor.

He couldn't tell if he'd been there for seven minutes or seventy years. It could've been 1942, right in the square of New York City before he got shipped out. She twirled into him, sunny hair swishing against his chest, creamy skin in his hands, her ribs under his fingertips, and he pulled her close, stepping in line with her, tossing in and out and feeling his joints loosen, the acquaintance of the past being met with a miraculous affability.

He'd done this before with other partners, he must have, but none would've held a candle to her. Experiencing Ruby was like learning a new song you'd know would be your favorite; one that you could listen to over and over and never quite get the words right, but you could still hear the melody long after the music stopped playing.

She was all smiles, weaving and twisting and tossing her head back. He could see the pulse under her flesh of her neck, white-hot and throbbing. When she curled back into his arms he could feel her breath inside her body, the eager pressing of her chest against his, and all he wanted to do was be alone with her.

After a blinking eternity Ruby grinned up at him, staring at his eyes and mouth. "Do you think you can make it home without a wheelchair?" She asked, and he let out a quick pant of laughter, his fingers taut against her back. "You're really getting a lot out of that, aren't you?"

She huddled close to him on the walk home, burrowing her icy fingers into the crook of his arm, snow catching on her and clothes, melting the second it fell on her skin. He couldn't care less about the road after that; his eyes were glued to her face, her mouth, the candy-red fabric of her dress that peeked out of her coat, the goosebumps on her collarbone. She insisted that they be as quiet as possible when they came to her door, the sound of opera playing on the above them, aged voices singing along.

When she stepped inside she removed her coat, stepping inside her room and shuffling around. He stood in her apartment again, collecting every detail. He walked to the pile of newspapers in her garbage, seeing red marks on some of the pages, a crumpled map of the city lying underneath them. He picked it out of the bin, studying the X's and lines that had been drawn on sections of Bucharest, streets and buildings with question marks over them.

He looked at the headlines of the newspapers, titles reading **CAPTAIN AMERICA MAKES FULL RECOVERY, SHIELD DISASSEMBLED, DC TERRORIST STILL MISSING.** Articles detailing Fury's death and the fight with Captain America were circled and underlined, and he could feel the harsh indentations of the pen against the paper. She must have been looking for him, too. She had been trying to find him all that time. What did he do to deserve that? What did a creature like her have to do with a thing him?

"James?" His name in her voice broke all concentration, and when he turned she was wrapped in a robe, her hair slipping against the fabric as she moved to him. He could feel his insides vibrate, his stomach twisting, the flash of adrenaline shooting through his veins _. I am dreaming_. She can't be real.

She had that look, that all-knowing expression, and her eyelids were low when she placed a hand on his chest, his breath rising against her touch. "You're safe, you know." She was almost whispering, the embers in her eyes aglow. He'd never thought about his safety until she said it; all this time he was thinking about her, how he was afraid of getting her hurt, of hurting her himself.

His hands didn't know how to do anything but hurt, but she took them in hers, the long, chilly flesh intertwining with his fingers. She was fighting to keep his eyes on hers, to pull him out of the abyss.

"Stay." Her lips moved and his head emptied for a moment, hypnotized, and without hesitation she drew forward, letting him make the movement that closed the gap between their bodies.

Her touch was delicate, the kiss igniting his senses; sight, smell, touch and taste, it was all Ruby. He was clean. No HYDRA, no Winter Soldier, no red string and bloody hands. Just her, with him. Finally. Without guidance he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, a mass of blonde hair in his hand, the ridges of her scars under his fingertips.

She was unrestrained, sliding her hands under the opening of his jacket, pushing it over his shoulders. Her feet moved backwards, splayed fingers pulling on his sides, leading him to her bedroom. Dreaming, dreaming. For every passionate touch there was a quick check, a sudden gentleness. _Don't hurt her. Don't be rough._ He could feel her body shudder when the cool metal of his prosthetic touched her hip, and she pressed further into him.

He laid her down carefully, his movements cautious, and he almost lost control when he felt her move underneath him, skin like butter. She sensed his caution and stopped, grinning. "Don't worry." Her fingers brushed his face, playfulness in her eyes, cheeks all rosy. "I'll be gentle."

He laughed, his head lowering, and when he looked up she held his jaw in her hands, bringing her back to him, and he was lost and found all at once, her name repeating over and over in his head and on his lips.


	15. Bucharest, Romania VI

The nightmares began to dim after that night, when he began sleeping in her bed. Each scream was quieted, each splatter of blood greyed out and smudged, every dying face blurred. The red string started to pool at his feet, useless now.

On the nights he woke up screaming she was there, a burst of warmth and comfort by his side, fingers soothing raw muscles, her voice like a tinkling bell in the darkness. _Come back._ There was a night that he swung out in his sleep, the prosthetic slamming into her chin; when he came to she was spitting blood on the grey carpet, shaking her hand out in variations of "I'm okay."

He'd cradled her in his arms, overly gentle, horrified he was still feral, that he was still hurting her, telling her he was sorry, so so sorry. She shook her head, lazy-smug, a strand of hair next to her face soaked with red. "Keeps things interesting." She tried to smile, but he wept, holding her head in his hand, rocking her back and forth.

That was Ruby; barefaced and heedless. She incited him to be passionate, to touch her the way he wanted, to be as rough as he liked. She didn't understand at first his only desire was to be gentle, to protect and take care and be good to her. Soon he laid his hands on every scar, promising each one that they'd be the last.

Still her humor never faltered, her eyes consistently lit with fervor. She was vulgar when she was angry, witty when he was hopeless, kind always. He held her like she was made of glass, and she was often the one to pull him into her, to grasp and grip and remind him that she could take him toe-to-toe.

He made her apologize to her neighbors for the noise, listened to her laugh with the tenants, hands clapping together in jest. Her hands, her hands could calm him, could excite him, could heal him. There came a point when he realized he needed her to light the shadows, to pull him back above the surface when he was caught in the undertow.

She delved into the sticky tar of his mind and searched with him, fought with him and for him. She bought him journals, kept pens at an arm's reach all throughout her home, just in case something resurfaced that needed to be held down and anchored on paper. He helped her to speak Romanian, his tongue fluent with a sea of dialects, and she taught him how to cook meat, to judge the ripeness of fruit.

The first six months were the hardest. There were times that he almost left, told her not to look for him, that he was a monster, that he would _ruin_ her. He thought about the innocent souls he'd stripped from their bodies, of what he'd do to himself if he hurt her. But still she fought, just as angry as she was benevolent, just as strong as she was gentle, her tongue sharp and quick.

"Don't be scared, James." She'd say, a beacon of forgiveness. Hadn't she hated him once? She should have hated him still, should have loathed him, and instead she laid him down, climbing over his legs, the ends of her hair brushing his face. "I'm right here."

 _Ruby._ She told him stories about her life; jokes, raw secrets. For every memory that was missing from his mind he gained a new one of her. Her face in the morning, the length of her fingernails, the smell of her soap, the sounds of her rolled R's when she spoke to her neighbors, the flush of her cheeks when she threw her head back from underneath him.

They slept near the fireplace in the dead of winter; used the old, red-marked newspapers as tinder. She learned his birthday from HYDRA's records and made him a cake-candles and wine and records from the forties. She bought a potted tree and dotted it with ornaments for Christmas, made greasy-soft cookies, sang Bing Crosby in an overzealous lilt. They talked about the war, about HYDRA, about Steve. As much a sickly pain as it was, he remembered.

He remembered the friendship, the brotherhood, the long days running from bigger men until they were the bigger men. The asthma attacks and sarcasm and good-natured spirit of Steve Rogers.

Right before spring came through the windows she took a job in the square as a ballet teacher, taught toddlers how to dance and stretch and prance around. She'd come home in a twirling spell, jumping into his arms and begging to get out of her tights.

For every step of progress, though, there was the aching throb of paranoia behind him. He kept his shack on the other side of town, clothes and a rucksack, just in case, just to be sure. He kept his hat on when they were outside, kept his head down, encouraged Ruby to do the same. But six months became eight, then ten, then a year. No HYDRA agents came, the news stopped flashing his face across headlines, and things went from good to better.

Things were always better before they got worse.


End file.
